After All This Time
by Zerbinetta
Summary: Medieval retelling: In 1453, Constantinople fell and he rose. Years later, he rose from the darkness to answer the prayer of a child who had lost her way. He broke her chains, allowed her to be free... never allowing anyone to steal her from him
1. Prologue

(trumpets) Tada! I promised it, here it is! A new phic! And unlike anything you have ever read! A medieval retelling! Whoo-hoo!

I don't own anything you recognize, only the idea of a medieval retelling.

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_**Prologue: 1453**_

X X X X

The young woman ran.

She had no other choice, knowing that her pursuers were at her heels. She was dressed in rags, almost, to the noble eye – to the eye of a peasant, she was modestly dressed. She had long black hair and dark eyes, the former hidden beneath a shabby old had. Had she not been dirty and frightened, she might have looked pretty, but her features were much too strong to ever make her truly beautiful. In a bundle of fabric, she carried with her the only luggage she believed she would need – her child.

She was not one of those unfortunate girls who were left with an unpleasant surprise in the form of a great appetite and morning sickness after a love affair. Quite the contrary – she and her husband had been blessed when they had received news from the local doctor that she was with child. But her beloved husband was no more… an accident at the site of the new church in their village had robbed her of all she held dear in life.

She had hoped that the son she carried within her body would bear a semblance of him, so that she might at least have a living, tangible memory of her only love. The birth had been difficult, an agony nothing could prevent­… but it had been nothing compared to what the release from the pain had brought her. The midwife had crossed herself; any servant present had screamed and ran. And when she had been presented with her son, she herself had almost screamed. Not out of joy.

It was a miracle that the two of them had survived the two months of hell in the village. Madeleine felt that by now, she knew every name a woman could get called. The Devil's Whore, Satan's Tart, hell-spawned slut, witch… witch. It had been that last name that had driven the entire village against her. The pain, the humiliation, she could endure. But when they came to her cottage with torches, with weapons, she only grabbed her son and fled.

Madeleine had been a slightly childish woman before the birth of her son, but she had outgrown the pettiness almost overnight. The two sharp blows in her life – the passing of all family she had and the birth of… _him_ – were more than enough to harden any heart, but to her, it had been almost like a whipping. But she was humble now… now when it was too late. There was no turning back.

She had considered killing her child, many times, but once the rest of the world had seen him, the midwife, even, she knew it would be useless. Besides, all knew of her pregnancy and a murderer, a woman that killed her own child, was to be damned to Hell! She didn't wish that, truly she didn't.

"There she is!" a hysterical voice shrieked behind her. Madeleine turned with the primal fear of a hunted animal and sped up. Her feet were bare, but instinct was stronger.

"Get her! Kill the witch!" someone roared and the rest of the crowd quickly joined in.

Madeleine ran with all her strength.

But in her heart, she knew they wouldn't rest until they had her and her son. Both of them wouldn't survive this day. She was weak, tired… just a woman, not past her teenage years yet. The crowd would catch up with her and if it wouldn't be this crowd, it would be the next, in another town, and another one, or the next one…

She was bound to her child, no matter what. She couldn't bear to kill him and she couldn't continue living with him dependant on her. All she could do was run once more.

There was a building ahead, hidden among the trees. With a sudden great hope, Madeleine recognized it as a convent. Nuns, religious women… a thought crossed her mind. Her son could survive this day if she could just make it there and leave him, then she could run to where no one knew her, where no one would accuse her of being a witch or call her anything equally wicked. They would both live and they would be safe.

With a last effort, Madeleine ignored the pain her feet felt. Her body protested, she needed rest, but she didn't allow herself to stop. Her life depended upon this, her and her child. It would be a sin to abandon him like that, but there was no other way. And leaving him among women of the Faith could hardly be worse than whatever fate awaited her poor child out in the cruel world.

In a way, it wasn't his fault that everyone feared him.

But to say that the fault was God's was blasphemous and Madeleine didn't dare think it, let alone say it. However, what other explanation was there? Her Charles had been perfect and she herself had no physical flaw either. How come the fruit of their great love had the cry of an angel and the face of the Devil, twisted and deformed, the face of Death and decay, and his eyes, yellow, shone like a cat's.

Cats were always associated with witches.

She hid herself among the trees and quickly ran to the back exit of the monastery. At once, she wrapped the child into the bundle, knocked on the door hard, gently laid the child on the doorstep and departed. She lingered for a moment, as if deliberating whether to kiss him goodbye, but she found not the strength.

After all, she would kiss Death one day… but this was not that day.

Madeleine fled, as if she had just passed the convent by. But the crowd was quick, more were gathering. One of them, a religious fanatic, had a crossbow with arrows that had been put in a fountain of Holy Water before the crowd had assembled. The maniac crowd encouraged the man and he didn't hesitate. He was a great marksman. He hit his target effortlessly.

Madeleine felt the air rush out of her lungs unnaturally. The pain, she almost didn't feel. Somehow, she felt glad that she was being put out of her misery. No longer would she need to allow herself to be chased by the hounds of guilt, by the Furies that would never let her rest for abandoning her own flesh and blood. Her child would be safe with the nuns.

Her son would live… with that thought, she collapsed into darkness.

X X X

Sister Antoinette had been the nun who had opened the door into the night when Madeleine attempted to outrun her pursuers for the last and final time. She was a woman of twenty three summers and at once recognized the bundle on their doorstep. The baby made no sound, even as the nun picked up the bundle.

_Mater misericordiae! Mother of mercy!_

She almost dropped it when she saw the face of the child. It was utterly hideous and a woman who had not seen cruelty and hatred in the world would have screamed. But Sister Antoinette knew better. She prayed in her mind that God would forgive the mother of this child for abandoning him, because he was not responsible for the tragedy of his visage. The rest of the child's body was frail, but strong and while to any other nun he would look like a Hell spawned creature, Sister Antoinette felt her compassionate heart take over.

She herself had given into passion once and given birth to a daughter, but the passion had been unwilling, she had been forced into the sacred act of creating a soul by an uncaring man. Afterwards, she had given birth to a beautiful girl, but felt that she couldn't support her family alone, thus she had entered the convent. The child, unfortunately, died, but the nuns taught her that it was a lesson to learn.

She had never learned that lesson. Truly, she was a new nun, new enough to have slightly more worldly and humanistic views than the others.

And then the child cried and Sister Antoinette felt that her heart had stopped. It hadn't been a shriek of a hungry child, but a melody of a voice that made her almost believe that the Lord himself had been once more reborn in this child, so that he might see if men had learned the lesson he had so sought to teach them so long ago. The good nun clutched her crucifix with one hand while carrying the child in another. Looking around fearfully, she took him into the building.

The rest of the nuns weren't around, so she quickly went to gather what clothes she could find for him, what food she could find. And then, she remembered that in Venice, it was the custom to dress up in masks for a carnival, a ball. For this child, the mask could prove a savior, so she quickly went to search for whatever fabrics she could find that wouldn't scratch his cold skin too much. Skilled enough in sewing, she was done within the hour.

An hour later, the masked baby seemed like any other child. Sister Antoinette smiled to herself as she rocked him. One could get used to anything and fix everything when they simply sat down and thought for a moment.

"Physical beauty is nothing in the eyes of Our Lord." She repeated in a whisper. The boy looked at her with some curiosity in his intelligent eyes. "You will need a name…" she realized quickly. She looked at him again, deliberating with herself. She was a well-educated nun and thus decided almost at once.

"You are as pale as the Scandinavian people and be certain that you will be the only man ruling in this building." she said, "Erik… that will be a nice name for you, it fits both. We nuns learn what we can from Latin texts, you know."

The boy cried again, clearly slightly sleepy. Sister Antoinette understood. Almost at once, he had agreed and assumed the role of the commander. And the nun found herself obeying, almost instinctively. God only knew how long Erik would rule her life – and rule it he would, because no other nun would dare take care of him besides her. This was merely the first day of a long journey set before her by God.

She accepted the journey willingly.


	2. Chapter 1

Thank you for the wonderful reviews, they are a great inspiration! Sister Antoinette might be making her last appearance in this chapter, so I should tell you that she is based on Madame Giry and the other new character in this chapter… you can guess that easily enough.

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**Chapter 1**

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France continued its existence under the rule of Louis XII, peacefully growing strong and expanding. The passage of years went unnoticed by most, but Mother Superior of the convent of St. Catherine counted almost each day. It had been almost forty years since she had opened the door of the monastery to find an abandoned child on the doorstep – back then, she had been an ordinary nun. Now, she was the head of the convent, about the only surviving nun from the religious society she had joined in her youth.

Now, it had been over thirty years since she had walked into that cell to find it empty.

Erik had been accepted by the nuns eventually, after Sister Antoinette convinced them of the fact that he truly was a human child, not a devil simply due to his face. His voice had been, at first, claimed to be the Devil's instrument of Seduction, but the Mother Superior of those days, Beatrice, understood that a new age was dawning and one wasn't taught by the Lord to banish those that hadn't sinned. The child's only sin was his face… and, as long as it was hidden from sight, the nuns, while jumpy, had no need to be squeamish.

The child was treated with kindness, mainly by Sister Antoinette, whom the boy began calling Mama, Mother, before she corrected him, with some regret, that she wasn't his Mama. Erik didn't understand at first, but as he grew, he began to grow distant and even more and more immersed in his studies of practically anything and everything he came across. Soon, however, he began to find the world of the monastery limiting, and while Sister Antoinette never showed him his face because she feared it would he a traumatizing experience, he was exceptionally smart and quickly noticed that he was treated differently than other children.

The moment of realization, he took badly. Though all mirrors within his reach were gone, one couldn't destroy the windows, the water… eventually, he saw. And he understood.

But his mind was too great, his horizons too absolute, and that he couldn't bear. And once he was old enough to realize that he had outgrown the walls of the convent, he fled from the place, leaving only a note for Sister Antoinette, a note of thanks and gratitude on his pillow in the cell he had received long ago. The few possessions he had gathered over the years were gone.

Sister Antoinette understood that this was a permanent goodbye, a farewell. That night, as she would proceed to repeat every night afterwards, she prayed for him, for his safety. He would survive, of that, she had no doubt, but thus far, he knew very little of the outside world. Sister Antoinette alone realized that perhaps it was too much to ask of the nuns to understand that their reclusive lifestyle prevented them from seeing that outside, the world was very different. Thus the church didn't understand the outside world and the outside world made a mockery of the church.

She had progressed herself, eventually becoming Mother Superior of her convent, but never journeyed far from the safety of the walls, trying to shape the convent to fit the more modern world. It was clear to all that a new age was dawning, that soon, the ways of old would be overshadowed by the new philosophy of humanism that was spreading throughout the world from Italy. The church would have to adapt to the new world… and Mother Antoinette was willing to make some compromises to ensure that the nuns under her care would be prepared.

She had known ever since she had begun to realize just how much talent God had given her youthful protégé that she wouldn't be able to hold him once he would realize what she had known long ago – that eventually, the walls of the convent would seem to be those of a prison to him. She hadn't searched for him when he left, knowing that if he left, he did so because he felt there was no more reason to stay. If she would have detained him, he would have grown resentful towards her… and sister Antoinette knew better than to trigger the spectacular temper she had seen him struggle with many times.

She sighed as she left her cell to go pray to the local chapel. Again, she wondered why the world was so prejudiced to those whose sin was only ugliness. Perhaps it was truly the Lord's next test of the faithful, to find out whether compassion was still in the world… and whether his children had learned the lesson of the Crucifixion.

Unfortunately, Mother Superior's faith in this was very slight.

X X X

The outskirts of Paris in the year 1492 were a wonderful place for an aristocratic palace.

The estate of the Chagny family was a large and quite beautiful building, well-kept and soon to be renewed. However, maintaining those two traits was quite an expensive feat – precisely what gave Christine Daaé hope that they might require one more maid to help in the kitchens or to wipe the floors. She had heard of the kindness of the local Comte, who acted as a father figure to his three siblings, of which only his younger brother now remained unmarried, because it seemed to be a much greater task to convince a young man to marry than to do so with a young woman.

Christine herself didn't even dream of marriage. All she wished for was a small room and a bit of food for herself. She had been an orphan for quite some time now, as her father had died of the plague and the girl, only six at the time, had been sent to the nearest orphanage and treated rather roughly, as all street urchins were. Thus she had a nauseatingly thin figure, a long, ghost-like face and seemed to be very sad at all times. At sixteen, she looked no more than thirteen. However, her blue eyes would have been pretty if she would smile and her hair, despite all the tangles, shone with goldish lights.

Today, she had put on her best frock– in the eyes of anyone even moderately rich, the plainest dress ever – and washed her face the best she could. She was most eager to leave the orphanage and this was, apparently, the best bet she had. She approached the estate slightly fearfully, and then quietly found her way to the service entrance. After a soft knock, she proceeded to knock slightly louder. Eventually, one of the maids opened it for her, a girl of a few more years than she, but with black hair and dark eyes.

"What do you want?" she asked, but not in a completely unkind tone.

Christine shrunk slightly, but voiced her plea. "I… I heard that the estate might require more servants, I have come to ask if you have any need for a girl, mademoiselle." She said, as if she was speaking to the lady of the house.

The girl laughed. "You are little more than skin and bones – you're lucky I was in the kitchens and not Suzette who opened the door. Come in, quickly, there's always the need for another pair of hands, but those hands have to be able to work, a skeleton is of no use to us."

She motioned to Christine to follow her and the girl, now slightly less afraid, followed. They walked into the kitchen of the estate, one of the larger rooms of the servants´ part of the building. Meanwhile the maid that had allowed her entrance cut some bread and fetched some cooked meat and water, preparing Christine what the blonde considered almost a royal meal. She almost forgot to thank the maid and ate with quite a lot of gusto.

The maid smiled slightly when she saw Christine eat as if she was doing it for the first time ever. "You will have to earn your keep, mind, when I introduce you to the Master. Lord de Chagny knows all of the servants by name and he is strict… but fair as well." she added, seeing the girl's wide eyes, "He will allow you to stay, have no worry." Pausing for a moment, she remembered she hadn't even asked for an introduction. She corrected that mistake at once.

"My name is Christine."

"I'm Marguerite." the maid noted briskly, "I'll show you around as soon as the Master approves your stay. He is out hunting with his brother right now; he should be back in a few hours."

By the time Christine had finished her meals, several other servants came and went, casting her curious glances, but Marguerite always spared her need to answer. Another girl had come running to Marguerite, who seemed to be quite the authority among the maids, telling her that the Lord de Chagny had returned from the hunt and, as Marguerite had asked her, she had told him about the new girl.

"He wishes to see her now – he seems to be in a good mood, the hunt was eventful, apparently."

Marguerite nodded curtly. "Thank you, Jeanette. Come, Christine, I will take you to Lord de Chagny. Now don't be frightened, remember what I said." Christine shakily stood up, swallowing dryly, and, like a lost puppy, followed Marguerite throughout the mansion.

She stared at everything and anything once they left the servant areas. The estate was decorated, but not lavish, more beautiful than any building she had ever visited, save the church, perhaps. But there had always been something unmistakably regal about churches, something Christine was afraid of. As a street urchin, she had little fears now. She had lived in the gutter for a while – she wasn't afraid of human cruelty. But that of the Heavens, however just, she feared.

Her father had told her stories of angels and the Heavens, of the beautiful music that played there. Christine loved mass because she was able to sing. She had a pretty voice, but a quiet one. She had very few reasons to sing most of the time. Now, she promised to herself that she would sing to her father in heaven if she would get this job, if the Count would allow her to stay. She would scrub the floors, wash dishes, anything, simply to get out of the orphanage.

"Monsieur," Marguerite stopped and curtsied once she came across her master, a handsome but slightly stern man with a truly sharp gaze. "This girl has come to ask if she may help out in the kitchens or around the estate as a maid. Her name is Christine."

The Comte de Chagny shifted his gaze to Christine. He saw the frailty of her build as much as everyone did, but also the desperation spreading through her eyes. It was clear that she would be going straight back to the streets, should he refuse. However, the Comte was many things, but not a cruel man. He nodded slowly. "Very well, since Heloise cannot work now because of her pregnancy, I suppose we could use another hand in the kitchens. Marguerite." The maid curtsied again quickly. "You know best what work is required. Make certain that the child gets some food and easier work at first."

Marguerite smiled slightly, but nodded and looked down quickly to say that she understood. "Yes, Monsieur le Comte. I will do exactly as you say."

"Good. You may go, both of you."

Marguerite curtsied and the brief look she gave Christine told the girl that she should do the same. They left together and the Comte de Chagny watched them disappear out of sight, shaking his head. Hopefully, the girl would be in better shape soon. He had no need for servants who couldn't even lift a broomstick. But he was willing to give her a chance.

"Philippe!" the Comte turned and his face softened. His younger brother, Raoul, was hurrying towards him, crossbow still in hand.

Raoul, while not the direct heir of the Chagny family, was considered an heir by Philippe. The Vicomte was his junior by two decades, which was more than enough to ensure that the estate of the Chagny family would be well-kept until an heir of Philippe himself would take over, should one be produced. Still, no signs of that happening were visible. The Comtesse de Chagny had died at childbirth and the child had been a stillborn. The Comte had an affair with one of the maids, but it was pretty non-comitial from his point of view. And even that showed no promise of a bastard of an heir – for that, he was glad.

The Vicomte de Chagny was himself was unmarried, but his brother strived to correct that as soon as possible. Raoul was surrounded by women at every ball, all of whom were hoping to become his wife one day. Thought Raoul appeared not to be willing to spend his life with any of them, Philippe was quite certain that he would be able to find a suitable wife for his brother among the many baronesses, marquises and countesses of France. The name of de Chagny was ancient and very respected, not to mention very wealthy. And Raoul himself wasn't in any way unappealing to the female eye – with soft features, sincere eyes and a smile that often appeared on his face, he was more than enough to make any lady swoon.

"The hunt today was spectacular!" the Vicomte said with a smile as he came to a halt. "We should truly go together more often – one would say that you are like good wine, better with each year, dear brother."

The Comte chuckled. He had caught more animals than his brother that day. "Still, you know the quotation: no luck in the game means luck in love."

"Luck has little to do with skill." Raoul noted, trying to change the topic from what he dreaded it was going to be.

"Unfortunately, love has a lot to do with the future. Or, to be more precise, marriage has."

The Vicomte sighed. "Philippe, we have gone over this many times. You have introduced me to every noblewoman in France. I desire none of them, not even if you would offer me the queen herself. I want to marry a woman I will love."

"I have nothing against that – surely you will find one you can love among the noblewomen of the world. If not France, then Italy, perhaps. The occupation is still continuing, but I believe we should strengthen our bonds with our southern friends." Philippe noted.

Raoul raised an eyebrow. "I am listening."

"Your marriage to an Italian noblewoman would be amazing for our family. I have taken the liberty of inviting several of my friends with their families from Italy to a masked ball – a Venetian tradition – I plan on organizing. Among them will be more than enough potential candidates for your future wife. Fitting candidates." The Comte said, satisfied.

"Very well." Raoul sighed, "But promise me that I may choose myself and if I do not pick one, allow me to have some time."

Philippe nodded. "You're my brother, which is more important than anything. All I am saying is that marriage brings happiness, Raoul, in time. Even if you wouldn't love your wife at first, I'm quite certain you would grow to love her. And that is a safe love, a stabile one, unlike the first infatuation you experience."

Embracing his brother briefly, Raoul turned to leave and store his crossbow in the armory. He wondered how his brother could be so unemotional about love. What he spoke of was habit, getting used to something, not love! Raoul couldn't imagine himself marrying a woman simply because he was told to. Without love, there was nothing, he said to himself. Until he would find a woman he would love, he would rather devote himself to hunting animals.

On the way from the armory, he passed Marguerite, who was showing some other girl, apparently a new maid, the rooms. Both curtsied and he nodded quickly to them, but he didn't almost give them a second glance. Fortunate they were, the lot of them, the servants, he thought sadly, they had to serve others, true, but they didn't have to force their hearts into serving anyone.

For the first time in his life, Raoul wished the unthinkable for an aristocrat: that he wanted to be a commoner.


	3. Chapter 2

**To answer the questions, here is my research:  
**

**Quoting Wikipedia: **_French Renaissance _traditionally extends from (roughly) the French invasion of Italy in 1494 during the reign of Charles VIII until the death of Henri IV in 1610. This chronology not withstanding, certain artistic, technological or literary developments associated with the Italian Renaissance arrived in France earlier (for example, by way of the Burgundy court or the Papal court in Avignon); the Black Death of the 14th century and the Hundred Years' War however kept France economically and politically weak until the late 15th century.

_The Black Death _was a devastating pandemic that first struck Europe in the mid-14th century (1347–51), killing up to a third of Europe's population, an estimated 34 million people. A series of similar epidemics occurred across large portions of Asia and the Middle East during the same period, indicating that the European outbreak was actually part of a multi-regional pandemic. The same disease is thought to have returned to Europe every generation with varying degrees of intensity and fatality until the 1700s. Notable later outbreaks include the Italian Plague of 1629-1631, the Great Plague of London (1665–66), and the Great Plague of Vienna (1679).

Well, this turned out to be a little complicated. There is little dialogue in this one, some prayers in Latin and a whole lot of angst. Be warned.

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**Chapter 2**

X X X X

The work of a maid in the Chagny family estate was, as Marguerite had explained, draining but rewarding. One could get used to it once they discovered the daily routine and Christine was determined to try. However, the first days of her duties weren't that easy. She had been given the easier tasks, but after she almost knocked over an antique vase, Marguerite decided that for now, Christine would do better with a broomstick, wiping the floors of most of the dirt. Almost always, Marguerite was at her side or in the room right next to the one Christine dusting.

Marguerite introduced the rest of the staff to Christine and vice versa – the majordomos Nicholas, the butlers Michel, Pierre, Laurent and Germain, the maids Francine, Audrey, Janette, Rachelle, Yoland and Suzette, the last of which appeared to be the black sheep, since she was the only one who greeted Christine only with a cool sneer and the head cook, Lucien. Overall, they accepted her well enough, though, with the possible exception of Suzette, they viewed her with pity.

She kept to herself most of the time and brought her things from the orphanage over to the estate all at once. Truth to be told, she didn't have that many possessions, but there were some she truly needed. Fortunately, Marguerite turned out to be willing to help out with pretty much everything and proceeded to become a kind of guardian for Christine, teaching her everything a chambermaid needed to know… but slowly, since it might overwhelm the girl, or so Marguerite thought.

They went together to mass every Sunday to the local church along with a few of the other servants from the estate – some couldn't go all the time and were needed at home, took turns each week, but Marguerite went as often as possible and Christine loved going to church. Rarely did one see so much beauty around them, and for her, this was all the more true. She would pray for her father often, even for the mother who she barely remembered and only as a fleeing vision, like a dream.

For two whole weeks, Marguerite had been her guide and guardian. The third week, however, she was required to stay at home and help out at a small banquet for a few aristocrats. Christine went to church twice that day, to mass and then late in the afternoon, lingering in her prayers even after ever everyone had left. She prayed more than ever that she would learn all that she needed to become a good chambermaid, that she would one day be like Marguerite, unafraid and strong.

_Pater noster, qui es in caelis_

_Sanctificetur nomen tuum;_

_Adveniat regnum tuum._

_Fiat voluntas tua_

_Sicut in caelo et in terra_

_Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie._

_Et dimitte nobis debita nostra,_

_Sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris._

_Et ne nos inducas in tentationem;_

_Sed libera nos a malo._

_Amen_

Christine crossed herself after she finished the prayer that she had been taught by the priest who would come to the orphanage each week to say mass to the children there or take them to the church. She couldn't read or write, not could she fully remember the meaning of the words she had spoken, but she knew their purpose well.

She proceeded to return next day to repeat the process, again, later than usual. And the next day as well. it proceeded to become a habit of hers. It was dark outside by the time she had finished the prayer on the fifth day, but she felt good, because she had sung the prayer out loud, like the priests did during mass, and the church had been empty when she had been there, so she didn't have to worry about anyone scolding her. Each day, she sang the prayer to the Lord and whenever she left the church, she felt slightly lighter, slightly happier.

Her life had taken a turn for the better and she thanked the Lord for that. For the first time since the moment she had been left alone in the world, she felt happiness.

Never did she once suspect that her joyful face had caught the eye of someone else.

He, like she, came to the church not to be seen, but to have a private dialogue with God. Not to pray, however. Her arrival had caused him to vanish, as was his custom, but he had heard her whisper prayers when he was leaving. The next day, he waited for her to come and wasn't disappointed. He didn't even know why he was watching the child. There was something undoubtedly tragic about her, and it wasn't only her almost starved visage. She came and went alone, at all times.

Each day, however, she seemed happier, her face fuller, her eyes brighter. She prayed for her dead parents, for her friend Marguerite, for herself. From these prayers, he was able to gather what had happened to her. Only once a week had passed was he able to find out that it had been her voice that had drawn him. It was innocent, crystal clear and beautiful to the ear. It contained a purity he hadn't witnessed in a living being yet and yet a sadness that made his heart ache, which was surprising, because it took very much to move him after the four decades he had spent hiding away from the rest of the world.

He listened to the child's prayers and suddenly found himself wishing that they would be fulfilled. He knew more than well enough that if there was a God, he was far from the merciful image the Christians viewed him as. After all, it had been God who had denied him all the rights of a human being, God who had given him the face that frightened the bravest of men. God wouldn't protect the fragile little girl who came each day to tell Him of her troubles and plead for her loved ones.

And while he wasn't God, he knew it was within his power to aid the child by giving her what she had never received during her prayers – an answer. He would speak with her, as a voice of Heaven, its invisible messenger. Hearing her prayers had produced within him also a longing to speak with her and tell her that God was a lie… or, more probably, to simply pretend that God was indeed kind and would help her.

This evening, she came a few minutes later, and he had already begun to fear that she wouldn't come at all. It frightened him somewhat – she was what had caused him to linger in Paris, what gave him reason to go to church. She was an intriguing creature, this embodiment of naivety and innocence. So different from the world and unskilled in its ways that a part of him, the part that was still human, could almost believe that she wouldn't shrink away from him if he were to simply approach her and speak with her, simply ask for her companionship.

She came, however, unsmiling again and humble, knelt in front of the altar and sang her regular prayers. He knew them all. After all, he had grown up in a monastery. But now, however, now she was praying to God that he would stop some woman called Suzette from mocking her. She was in tears. He simply couldn't leave her alone in the darkness with a silent and impersonal God.

Instead, he began singing the Magnificat, quietly at first, then raising his voice. He knew how to make it sound as if the voice was coming from the altar itself, from in front of the girl or, if needed, from above.

_Magnificat anima mea Dominum_

_Et exultavit spiritus meus in Deo salutari meo_

_Quia respexit humilitatem ancillæ suæ: ecce enim ex hoc beatam me dicent omnes generationes_

_Quia fecit mihi magna qui potens est, et sanctum nomen eius_

_Et misericordia eius a progenie in progenies timentibus eum_

_Fecit potentiam in bracchio suo, dispersit superbos mente cordis sui_

_Deposuit potentes de sede et exaltavit humiles_

_Esurientes implevit bonis et divites dimisit inanes,_

_Suscepit Israel puerum suum recordatus misericordiæ suæ,_

_Sicut locutus est ad patres nostros, Abraham et semini eius in sæcula_

The girl looked up. She didn't understand, that much was clear, but she was entranced by the divine voice. There was no doubt that she believed it came from Heaven itself, that it was a message, an answer to her prayers. And he, silent in his dark cloak, hiding in one of the dark alcoves, continued singing, in French now, the same prayer, the same melody. No accompaniment was needed.

_My soul doth magnify the Lord: and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour_

_For he hath regarded the lowliness of his handmaiden_

_For behold, from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed_

_For he that is mighty hath magnified me: and holy is his name_

_And his mercy is on them that fear him throughout all generations_

_He hath shewed strength with his arm; he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts_

_He hath put down the mighty from their seat and hath exalted the humble and meek_

_He hath filled the hungry with good things and the rich he hath sent empty away_

_He remembering his mercy hath holpen his servant Israel: as he promised to our forefathers, Abraham and his seed, for ever_

Crying tears of happiness, the girl sobbed audibly as she heard the prayer, at loss for words. She threw herself in front of the altar, lowering her head to the very ground. this surprised him, but he quickly recovered. He should have been expecting her reaction, he scolded himself. After all, she was a Christian, she believed this was a heavenly sign. He put the utmost gentleness into his voice as he spoke to her as if he were standing next to her.

"Rise, child, and feel no fear. No peril awaits you for henceforth you are under my protection." He said softly, trying to imagine how a real heavenly creature would speak.

The girl sobbed and raised her head timidly. "An… angel…" she said in a choked whisper, "Oh, Lord… oh Lord above, you have heeded my prayer… you have sent me a guardian angel as my father promised… father, father! Your little Christine thanks you… you… you are my guardian angel?"

Christine. Truly a Christian name, he thought. Thankfully, he had found it out before he had to address her, thus he was able to fulfill the role of an all-seeing and all-knowing angel easily. "Yes, Christine. I am your guardian angel, sent by your father who sits with my brethren in heaven."

Christine sobbed again. "I almost don't believe…"

"Believe, child, and you will be rewarded. Blessed are those who believe." He paused for a moment, cherishing her tears of joy. "I have sung the Magnificat for you – tradition dictates us to sing Gloria Patri. Sing with me, child." He commanded gently.

"I… I cannot besmirch your voice with mine…" Christine looked around, as if waiting for him to appear.

"Have no fear, child. The angels hear your voice as it soars to the Heavens. Sing with me and I will stay with you forever."

And the child, fearful that she would lose her angel, quickly obeyed. He smiled inwardly. It had been sealed, this thing. He would stay for her.

_Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritu Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in sæcula sæculorum, Amen._


	4. Chapter 3

You know, who needs Wikipedia or Encarta when I have Leben is Magie to correct me, huh? ;-) Anyway, you can call off the mini Christines and mini Eriks now… please… or I'll really have to get a baseball bat to fend them off.

Yay for backstory!

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Chapter 3

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He was anything _but_ what he had told her he was – he was no angel, that was certain. Not in heart and certainly not in appearance. His name was Erik – he knew no surname for himself and desired none. A man like him didn't need two names to distinguish himself from others. According to his personal math, he had crossed the "milestone" of forty years only recently. The passage of years meant nothing to him. For the better part of those four decades, he had been awaiting death. Not that he hadn't come close enough to it at many occasions.

He escaped the convent where he had had a quite happy childhood and traveled around the known world. He was a survivor – he had to be. The disfiguration of his face, which had robbed him of so much many took for granted had also robbed him of any shred of feeling towards the human race, of which he now spoke with distaste. Had it not been for his deformity, he would have been an honored scholar kings would fight for. But he was a social outcast, to put it plainly… and he preferred it that way.

His face was his only flaw physical flaw – his form was tall and slender, but strong and not at all gangly as most tall men were. His hair was black and his eyes shone in the darkness, like a cat´s – they were bright yellow, but otherwise, quite normal. There was a strange grace to his movements, a dance-like grace, that made his every step and movement elegant. Combined with his voice, which was the vocal interpretation of what Heaven might be, there was no one in the world he couldn't enchant or enslave. This powerful hold was broken only by the sight of his face… and that rarely happened, because he was quicker than almost anyone who had ever tried to tear the mask he wore from his face.

Another thing distinguished him from others: he didn't believe in God. Or he attempted not to believe in Him. But then again, he often had monologues directed towards Him, and if God didn't exist, who was to blame for the error that was his face? He believed in God… but he hated God for ending his life before it even began. It was a blow He had delivered that was entirely unjustified and unfair, but who ever said God didn't make mistakes? As the years passed, Erik grew bitter. Even before, he had resented the nuns when they had told him that God had a higher plan with him. Erik saw none and found himself hating the nuns for their blind belief.

After fleeing the monastery, he quickly learned how to survive, how to get food, shelter and money… and, eventually, he had to learn how to kill in order to stay alive himself.

To balance out his hideousness, however, it seemed that God had given him every talent available to mankind, the ability to learn any and every skill and art in the world. Though France was still living in the past, the renaissance spreading from Italy couldn't be ignored in Erik's eyes and he found himself admiring the artists that broke free of the church's hold over them and showed the world what they truly felt. But music, his most beloved art, was still under the shadow of Christianity and all songs were meant for the Lord. But in his mind, different music played. He wrote it down whenever he could and brought it with him – the most precious of his belongings.

He was ever on the move. Only recently he had returned to Europe from the Middle East. He had seen the Holy Land, saw where thousands had died during the crusades. And for what purpose, he asked himself. For a time, he had remained in the Islamic lands. There, despite the fear they showed when he was near, they also showed respect when it came to his talents. A political assassin was in high demand, as it always was in countries where swords had higher value than words. But eventually, the need to return to his own country took over, the need to hear his native tongue. Journeying through the now rich cities of the south, he had seen enough wonders to last a lifetime… and now, he was home.

He had meant to leave Paris days ago, but the appearance of the girl changed everything. The only positive emotion he felt he was capable of was compassion and that was precisely what the very presence of this girl demanded. She wasn't a survivor, clearly. Mankind would crush her once she would enter the world. There was no place for the weak in the world of bloodshed in the name of faith. In a few years, she would surely be a wreck. And something tugged at him when he saw this. Her voice had attracted his attention, thanks to its purity. And innocence… one could almost believe…

But experience had taught him that wishful thinking only led to disappointment. His hopes weren't high – she wouldn't allow a stranger to help her, let alone one such as him. Whenever he passed through a village and someone saw him, they thought it was the Black Death riding to get them, because he always wore black clothes and a hooded cloak that covered the mask he wore to cover his twisted features.

The Dark Rider. The Black Knight. Death. Yes, fitting names for him.

But to Christine, he had to be an angel, because her little heart could only open up to a divine entity. Only then could he find out what was wrong with the child who sang without soul and prayed desperately each day. And then, perhaps, he could heal her and safely forget her…

After each conversation with her, however, whenever her eyes widened with near-ecstasy when she heard the voice of her angel from above, he wanted to leave less and less.

Two months passed and Christine began to look healthier than before. She wasn't so nauseatingly thin anymore, but her waist was still much too narrow. Her bony and pale face began filling in and, thanks to her "angel" and Marguerite's lectures about snapping back at Suzette when she felt like it, her entire form seemed to straighten up and once the third month died, she was almost floating each day. During her work, she was lost in her own world, counting the minutes before her chores would be done and she could go to church at the hour when no one would be there. No one except him.

Never did his voice cease to fascinate her. Never did she have the slightest doubts that she was speaking with a divine being. Who else could know her so well and be that kind to her? At times, she believed that there was actually a presence near her, a friend and guardian. He began teaching her monets and magnificats by modern French composers, such as Antoine Busnois. She practiced a bit during work, singing quietly to herself. She had been in the middle of "M'a vostre cueur" when someone said: "That's beautiful."

Christine jumped and dropped the broom she had been holding. She had been so absorbed in her own thoughts that she didn't even notice the Vicomte de Chagny enter the room she was sweeping. Clumsily, she curtsied and picked up the broom, muttering an apology. The Vicomte, however, was quicker and picked up the broom before she managed to grab it. She stood up awkwardly, looking at the broom handle instead of at him.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to frighten you." Raoul said softly, tilting his head a bit to get a better look at her face. He seemed to remember her, but at the same time, her face was foreign. Certainly he hadn't seen eyes so soulful before. Awkwardly, he handed her the broom and the girl took it with a shaking hand. "What's your name?"

"Christine, monsieur." She said hesitantly, glancing up briefly to see him studying her. She didn't really understand. Was he going to punish her?

"Christine," he repeated, his lips forming a small smile. "You indent be afraid of me. No punishment can be given when I am the guilty one. It is you who must forgive me. I simply heard you singing and you have a very pretty voice."

"Thank you, monsieur." Christine said uncertainly.

The Vicomte was uncertain what to say. On principle, he didn't indulge himself in chambermaids or maidservants in general, but this one… he didn't know why he found her different, but somehow, he was startled that he had never noticed her before. After all, they had no other blonde maid in the house. Impulsively, he turned on his heel and left without another word. The girl wasn't even pretty. In fact, she would have been thoroughly ordinary if not for that… glow she had. like the light that drew spirits from Purgatory, she seemed to draw others… but she was just a maidservant, nothing more.

Meanwhile, Christine was trembling in the room he had vacated. Like nearly all the maids that worked in the estate, she found the young Vicomte handsome. She found herself staring out of the window when he rode off on his white horse many times. But they had never spoken, never looked at each other… and she knew better than to think that he would like her anywhere else than in her fantasy. Nevertheless, she felt color rush into her cheeks when he entered the room. Right now, however, she was as pale as snow. The Vicomte… speaking to her… with kindness! Helping her, not punishing her for her clumsiness!

She was very lighthearted for the rest of the day. Even her angel seemed to notice the change in her. "Child, if the wind would blow, I feel you would soar without wings." he said to her, "What is the source of your joy?"

"I have all that I could ever want in the world when you are by my side, my angel." Christine breathed from the altar. When _he _spoke to her, even her infatuation vanished. "You are my friend and protector, and that is enough to make me thank the Lord each waking moment that he sent you to me."

There was a brief silence. Erik studied her face from the shadows. "You are… happy, then, Christine?" he asked quietly.

"You say it with such sadness, angel." Christine noted, her smile faltering for a moment.

"No… but once you are truly happy in this world, Christine, I must leave you forever." He would ruin her life by staying with her. Just once, he would create something beautiful by perfecting her soul… and then he would leave her, his triumph, for the entire world to see.

"No!" Christine cried, "You cannot leave me, angel, no… not in this world full of strangers… where I am nothing without your guidance… please…" her voice dropped rapidly, "I have a wish, one you might never grant me… I am happy now, happy because you are near. But I would be jubilant if I… if I could see you, as you surely see me. Angels appear to the worthy in human form, do they not? Please… I ask you… let me see you…."

The long silence that followed frightened her so completely that she almost went hysterical for a moment. as she began sobbing dryly, her castle of dreams breaking, the voice of her angel spoke to her, but with a coolness she had never heard in it before. It was like a swift winter wind, the sound. "Greed is a sin, child, and your greed is great. It is enough that you hear me."

Christine winced at the chill that passed through her, as if she had been slapped. "I… I'm sorry…" she whispered, "I just… I just wanted to know you are really there."

Silence. Then, a warmer tone, like the first sunray. "I am here, child. Calm yourself."

"Promise me you won't leave me, angel. Please promise me that."

In the shadows, Erik closed his eyes, his back pressed against the wall in agony. If he would promise her, he wouldn't be able to break the promise. Broken promises he couldn't stand. Breaking her heart he couldn't stand either. She had captured him in a trap… and, unwillingly, captured herself as well.

"I promise." The angel's voice whispered to Christine.


	5. Chapter 4

Well, here you have it! I hope it isn't too quick… just a note, Suzette isn't the Carlotta character here.

X X X

**Chapter 4**

X X X X

Throughout the next two months, Christine did all she could to ignore Raoul de Chagny. She found it hard, however, not to notice him watching her frequently, as if waiting for her to slip. He hadn't spoken to her once from that moment on and she, panicking that her angel might leave her, hadn't tried to be in his presence longer that was absolutely necessary. Not that it was very difficult – all she had to do was avoid him in the corridors and ignore his glances at mass. She was now afraid that even being in his presence might anger her angel, though the angel had never spoken to her with anything but kindness each day they met. However, she feared his all-seeing eyes, feared that they might see into her heart. She tried to convince herself that what she felt for the young aristocrat was an admiration, an infatuation.

It became all the easier when the household received a very respectable visit one day. Apparently, it had been planned for a long time, this visit. Families that were friendly with the Chagnys had come, or at least some of their family members. The de Chagny estate was slowly turning into somewhat of a hotel – the guest rooms were full. But even Christine, in her naivety, couldn't miss the fact that each family had brought at least one daughter with them, all around Raoul´s age… and every single one had been introduced to the Vicomte upon their arrival. Christine felt that only she saw the saddened look in Raoul´s eyes when he kissed their hands and welcomed them. Clearly he didn't like any of them.

Unfortunately for her, Suzette had spotted her staring at the Vicomte for a moment when she was cleaning the corridor and the aristocrats passed her. Suzette, carrying a bundle of clothes for the washing room, laughed harshly as the nobles vanished around the corner. "What do I see? The street rat likes to look at our master!" she smirked, "Can't keep your legs together? Or perhaps you have more noble intentions, the little innocent that you are? You've picked the wrong man for that, Mademoiselle Toad. Those women with him? The M´sieur le Comte wants his brother to marry one of them. Be smart and get yourself a man of your class. Or perhaps there isn't any who would like a little toad such as you, hmm?"

Marguerite wasn't nearby, so Christine didn't have any defence. Instead of replying, she simply continued wiping the floor with an expression of fierce determination. Suzette apparently got tired of her and marched away, still laughing to herself. However cruel her words had been, however, even Christine had to admit that she was right. Liking to look at the Vicomte was one thing. Daydreaming about what it would be like, to be a great lady that could walk at his side, like those pretty mademoiselles she had seen roaming the estate like queens.

She hurried to the church that night unlike she had ever before. The doors were open, as always, but she hurried to the altar so that she didn't even notice that another was there, a man whose attention she caught at once. He gently laid a hand on her shoulder, but she jumped as if he had struck her and took a step back. It was the Vicomte.

"You have come at last, mademoiselle." He said quietly, very humbly, "I was afraid you weren't going to come. Marguerite had told me you went to this church every day. I have been waiting here for you for some time, I didn't know when you would come…" he trailed off and smiled very slightly, very briefly.

Christine edged away in fear as if he had aimed a weapon at her. What if her angel was already here! But… he was everywhere! And if he would see this… she prayed for strength, for her heart was beating louder than ever before. She dared to hope. But her face was very frightened as she gazed at Raoul and whispered: "Wh-why did you want to sp-speak with me, monsieur?"

"I have been trying to speak with you for very long, but you have been avoiding me, Christine. Christine… may I call you that?" It almost seemed as if he were talking to some noblewoman. Christine found herself nodding shakily. "I wanted to ask you about yourself. What is your last name? How have you ended up in our service?"

"I… I don't understand why you would wish to know, monsieur." Christine looked down at the ground. "I am but a maidservant at your home. There is nothing to know."

Suddenly, he was much too close and grasped both of her hands in his. "By the Lord, Christine, don't you understand? I have endured many sleepless nights – the vision of you robs me of my peace! Have mercy and tell me who you are, I beg you…"

Christine's eyes widened and she quickly withdrew from his grasp. Her heart was beating rapidly. "Sir, I-I am not that kind of woman." she stuttered, shaking her head wildly.

Raoul stopped, looking at her with great surprise. Did she really think he had come here simply because he wanted to possess her physically? By God, what he felt was entirely different from that. He had experienced lust before, but it was a primal thing, a passing thing. But he didn't feel lust for this girl. It was something different, something that was beyond physical. "Christine, I didn't mean that…"

"Please leave, monsieur." she pleaded, "Please go and don't speak to me again. Just… leave me, please…" She looked very pitiful there, every inch of her being pleading for him to go. Raoul understood. She was afraid of being used and thrown away, like some toy. And he wouldn't be able to explain to her that his interest in her wasn't at all like that. She wouldn't believe him. What reason would she have to believe him?

Christine watched him bow to her, as if she truly were a great lady, and leave. Her breaths were shallow and she stood there like a statue for several minutes after he had left. She was hoping for some sign that what she had done had gone unnoticed by her angel, that he would come to her and calm her, assuring that nothing was wrong. She had done the right thing, after all – she had renounced any mortal feelings for the sake of faith. She had been good… her angel would be proud of her.

"Mortal child, have you lied in your pleas that I should not leave you?"

Erik, standing hidden from her view once more, saw her wince, as if he had struck her. She fell to her knees and begged, pleaded. He almost didn't hear any of it. She had an admirer! A man had succumbed to her innocent subconscious charms! She was slipping from his grasp. Her mouth was lying when she said that she wanted the young man to leave. Her eyes had betrayed her, her voice had quivered. She was losing her heart to that man – her devotion to her angel had swayed.

How come he hadn't noticed it before!

"Please don't leave me!" she cried hysterically, "I have renounced him, I never sought him out and never will! I have done it for you, my friend, my guardian, my angel! I haven't lied to you, I cannot, I dare not!"

A long, heavy silence greeted her words and Christine continued wailing, completely broken. Erik watched her from the shadows, considering her words. Her respect and devotion to him were obviously supported by her will and she was fighting a battle with her young heart. But even though she knew that her affection for a man above her class was foolish and doomed, even though her will was keeping her in check, he saw on her face that she was fighting a lost battle.

As he watched her, he came to the conclusion that he simply couldn't leave her like that. She was already hysterical, who knew what his complete absence would do to her mind and soul? She had grown to depend on him psychologically, for support and guidance. Inevitably, she would collapse if he would leave her and never fully heal. And he… he had grown to enjoy the fact that he could speak with another human being without screams, wicked words or pain. She was a wildflower he had taken from the wild and planted into a safe little garden, where he could take care of her and watch her grow. Now that she was threatened by weeds, it was, perhaps, time to move her to a greenhouse from which only he had the key.

The sound of her crying was almost physically hurting him.

"Christine…" his voice was back! He was still with her! Christine thought with a sudden jubilation as she raised her teary eyes back to the ceiling. He hadn't abandoned her! "Calm yourself. Don't cry."

"Take me away from here, please…" she sobbed, "This world I live in is wicked, filled with cruel, mocking strangers. Yours is a world of beauty and music… with you, I am not afraid… whenever I leave here, I am afraid… don't make me leave, please… take me with you…"

Again, there was a silence that frightened her. Erik had shut his eyes tightly, forcing himself not to look at her. She had no idea what she was asking. He felt his own tears underneath the mask. It wasn't for him that she was crying. She was crying for her angel, the angel that had never existed. He wasn't worthy of her innocence, her trust, let alone her tears. Each day, the brilliant glow of ecstasy that surrounded her grew and he found joy in the fact that it was his doing. Happiness hadn't made her pretty – it had made her radiant. She was still the same, yet completely different. Her light pulled him like a ghost eager to leave purgatory. He knew that instead of allowing her to bring him to heave, he would be the one to drag her down to hell with him. But he couldn't help himself, despite knowing the wickedness of what he was doing. She was the first person ever to cry for him, ever to speak to him with gentle, tender words, the first to persuade him that he wasn't set apart from the human race.

He wasn't… or he wouldn't be able to yearn to keep her close.

"Come, and believe in me! Those who believe in me will live again!" he called out, ignoring the persistent guilt and fear within him. He couldn't refuse any wish she had, not even this mad request that could very well be her doom. "Walk! Those who have believed in me cannot die!"

Christine rose, trance-like, walking closer to the altar in front of her. More tears fell down her cheeks, tears of happiness. She prayed silently, waiting, knowing that her angel would come for her. She wasn't afraid of death – it was a small price to pay for an eternity of happiness, joy. She had renounced all earthly passions, all mortal connections, for this. In her heart she knew that she would be rewarded for all those days of hoping that one day, she would be worthy in the eyes of her angel, worthy enough to see him.

But no new light penetrated the darkness of the church; no sign of any holy spirit eased her mind. She didn't see anyone, least of all the bright lights she had always imagined surrounded angels. Suddenly, however, a hand closed in around her throat, surprisingly gently, as if to only prevent her from turning rather than in an attempt to choke her. In a moment of panic, she thought of trying to struggle, but her angel's voice sang a lullaby in her head. She no longer understood… there was only darkness.

Erik sensed that she didn't have the strength to handle the moment and caught her limp body before she could injure herself. Her form was even more slender than he had imagined and her face was even paler in the moonlight. When fear wasn't spread across her face, she looked very peaceful and if she were smiling, he imagined that she would be like the sun, her hair seemingly rays of its golden light. The sun of his life, that was what she was for certain. Her smile had illuminated his path for the past months and giving up that light and returning to darkness wasn't his intention.

He knew well that once she would wake, she would realize that she had been deceived, that she would hate him and renounce him. So he would have his dream now and hold another person without them objecting, imagine that she wouldn't mind if she were conscious, imagine that she could learn to accept him, trust him, love him, as he had learned to worship her for what she had given him. She wouldn't wake up in heaven, though she deserved no less than that. But he would deal with that once the time would come.

For now, heaven was his alone.


	6. Chapter 5

Sorry for the long wait, but school truly sucks and I had loads of tests to study for. Right now, I should be free to write some more.

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**Chapter 5**

X X X X

Images and sounds moved through her dreams. Nothing was truly real, simply out of reach, visible, but never tangible. She was dreaming, for sure. Christine realized that soon enough and upon that realization, her dreams ended. She didn't remember much of what had happened. Certainly, she had been standing in the church, that much was obvious. She had been there and had begged her angel to take her with him, yes… to heaven… but was this heaven? She opened her eyes.

If it was heaven, it looked very little like what she imagined it would look. It was dark, seemed to be a tomb… but it wasn't. She saw the cross ahead of her… only it didn't look ethereal at all. She sat up, realizing she was lying on several tapestries, one being used to cover her. She looked around and saw that she wasn't in heaven at all. It wasn't heaven… it was the chapel near the church, almost right outside it. But it was sealed at all times, she knew, she remembered.

How had she gotten here?

She stood up and stepped away from the tapestries. But her movement didn't go unnoticed and neither was she herself now ignorant to the fact she wasn't alone. With a little scream, she backed away from the towering dark figure just ahead of her and found that her back was pressed against the wall. A thousand panicky thoughts swirled through her head and she was, not for the first time in her life, afraid.

The man approached her almost timidly and a gloved hand moved towards her cheek. Christine closed her eyes, but never felt the contact… only a coolness generated from the stranger's skin, even from afar, despite the presence of the fabric. She trembled, awaiting her fate… and waited. Finally, after a minute, she chanced opening her eyes. The man was still standing there, less than two feet away from her, watching her with unseen eyes. This silence, this suspense was too frightening.

"Who…who are you?" Christine asked shakily, quietly, "You…you aren't my angel…"

There was a quiet sigh from the darkness and the man turned away from her, lowering the hood of his black cloak. Christine was still very afraid, but felt herself stop pressing at the wall so much. Something had eluded her understanding her. Suddenly, she was back at the wall again, for the man had turned.

What frightened her the most about what she saw wasn't the white mask that covered most of his face – it was the piercing look he had in his unnaturally colored eyes. This time, two hands grasped her shoulders and Christine felt herself shrink slightly. The stranger didn't hurt her, only prevented any escape possible, not that she had thought of any.

"No… I am no angel… no heaven-sent messenger...if anything, you are from heaven, Christine, lighting the path of one who had thread in darkness for far too long…"

She would have recognized the voice of her angel everywhere, but coming from this man, right in front of her, without the frightening godlike resonance, it was almost too frightening to listen to it. Then she realized that she had been very stupid and naïve, that she had been tricked, by God knew who and that she was at the mercy of the same trickster. Yet still his voice soothed her and thoughts of anger were weak.

He collapsed to his knees in front of her, letting her arms go, grasping the hem of her skirt tightly. Christine still didn't understand fully, but she was beginning to realize that she wasn't going to die, that she wasn't doomed. As he raised his head, Christine got another glimpse of his eyes, but now, they weren't burning with a great fire. It seemed that something gentler had replaced the previous feelings she had spotted there.

"Forgive me!" he sobbed into her skirts, "Forgive the blasphemous lie that now costs me your trust, Christine… you are the angel… I am only Erik…a wretched creature who has fallen in love with you!"

Christine heard her breathing stop for a moment and then become very gasp-like within a second. Never before had she been faced with such terror, such shock and such pain before. But the pain wasn't hers anymore. She closed her eyes and began sobbing, more out of confusion than fright. She didn't know what to answer to such a statement. No one had ever said to her that they loved her, save her father and she sensed that this was a different kind of love.

The love that had been burning in his eyes – yes, it had been love! – was an emotion unlike any she had ever seen, dark, strong, passionate, robbed of innocence, quite unlike the utter gentleness his voice resonated with now to convince her of the truth of this declaration. Christine looked at her captor, her angel, her deceiver once more and slipped down the wall, crouching in front of him. She looked at him through teary eyes and he – Erik, her mind reminded her – looked up with a hope that hit her like a ton of bricks and almost crushed her against the wall.

The longer she looked at him, the longer it troubled her that she couldn't see his face, now that the truth had been revealed. As her angel, she didn't have to think of him as a person, but now that he was in front of her, as real and as human as her, she believed that her fantasy wouldn't be able to do him justice. Certainly, his blazing eyes were frightening and his unique voice hypnotic, but she noticed that there was a grace to his movement and an honesty to his gaze that she found appealing. Nevertheless, her hand reached out to his face, willing to revel it.

His hand suddenly closed in around hers and he pushed it away, slightly more fiercely than he had touched her before. Erik shook his head sadly, as if afraid to forbid her from doing this so that he wouldn't shatter the very weak barrier against fear she had created within herself.

"You shall never see Erik's face." he said simply, but commandingly. "I love you, Christine." How wonderful it was to say it, even though her face was still teary! But she had ceased crying. Yet today was a shock enough for her. Showing her his face would be… disastrous. "I love you more than anything. You don't love me, I know, but you don't fear me anymore, don't you see? Fear can turn to love, you know? Like in the story of the rose and the nightingale."

"The-the rose and the…?" Christine repeated, forgetting her fear briefly.

A smile passed through Erik's eyes, Christine was certain of it. "Nightingale, yes. It is an old Persian story. They have many wonderful stories in the East, did you know that? Some have happy endings… some don't. I have seen few happy endings in my lifetime, but good things are always rare. Your father told you stories, didn't he?"

Christine found herself nodding. "Yes… yes, he would always tell me nice stories."

"Then we could exchange some stories, wouldn't it be nice?" Erik said with something very close to happiness. "We could walk in the moonlit city and I would show you the fireflies in the dark and the starlit night unlike you have seen it. And we would tell each other stories of angels and demons and everything you wish! Then, perhaps, you wouldn't be afraid…"

He said it with an almost childlike tone, like a little boy craving for attention, Christine found herself letting out an involuntary laugh, and then clapping a hand over her mouth quickly.

"Never be afraid to laugh in my presence, Christine. It hurts me to see you sad. I love you." He said again and Christine found herself accepting the fact. "Perhaps I could tell you a story, for a start? I think you won't know this one – Aesop, what do you say? The lion and the mouse."

Erik began telling the tale with a natural storytelling ability, making Christine forget that they were in the dark and unused chapel, that she had been lied to… there was nothing but the tale coming to life around them.

Yet even as she watched and listened, she couldn't help but wonder – why would a gentleman who seemed to be kind and good, wear a mask in front of her? Why hide his face – even if she was to tell someone she had met him, she knew no one would believe her. What did he have to hide? Why couldn't she see? Why shouldn't she? After all, she had revealed everything about herself – everything there was to tell – and she didn't know the first thing about him, save his name and that he loved her…

A moment later, she regretted the decision to take her fate into her hands. With a cry of rage, betrayal and grief, he hurled himself away from her, from the merciless little hand that had snatched the mark away. Erik stood up with the movement of an escaping beast and fled to the other end of the chapel. Yet Christine had seen enough to cause her to scream and collapse. It was a wonder she didn't faint, but her legs gave out nevertheless.

His face was, in a word, hideous. By some terrible miracle, she saw through his skin and saw a Death's head, saw skin that seemed burned and twisted and deformed… yet it was much, much more horrible. He looked like a corpse that had been rooting in some dark place for many long winters, the only company being the rats and the insects of the swamp or graveyard.

"The Devil!" Christine shrieked out, putting her hands in front of her face in a defensive gesture, then crossing herself quickly.

"Not the Devil, my dear, no! The Devil can change his form at will! The Devil can appear beautiful! What I would give to be the Devil!" Erik laughed hollowly, with a tinge of something Christine frightfully recognized as madness. "What I would give to be able to make my face vanish! Anything in this world, anything, can vanish under my hands, but not this! Not my face, my accursed ugliness! Does it please you, Pandora, to see it, to open your box! Oh, but you don't know the tale! I'll tell you! Pandora was the most beautiful woman in the world, created by the Gods to punish men, because she had a box that contained all the evils of the world and she opened it, unleashing them! Only hope remained crushed beneath them… hope…" His voice was empty, broken. "I have no hope. I had hoped that you would love me, Christine, love me and return to me on your own accord, without seeing my face, without being faced with this horror! But don't you see that now that you have seen my face, you can never leave me, you cannot!"

He returned to her, towering her with his astonishing height, his dark cape almost blowing in a nonexistent breeze, because of his very will. Christine began crying and sobbing in a most pitiful manner and Erik felt as if someone had stabbed him in the heart. He had endured many battles, many fights and had experienced wounds, but this was more than he could bear. He sank to his knees, his tone dramatically changing. No longer was he the commanding dark lord, but a pleading child.

"Please don't cry. It hurts me to see you cry, it hurts too much…. I cannot survive the pain, I cannot see you cry like this…I love you, Christine… I love you… even I can love…even I…"

And he cried as well, Christine saw through the gaps between her fingers, in that inhuman voice that never failed to enchant. Christine's sobs lessened somewhat. She gathered enough courage to hand him the mask that she had dropped in her fear, to return it to him. She saw a terrible pain in his eyes as he took it, but once it was back in place, he seemed to shake off several decades and much of the brokenness that had filled him before. He was her commanding angel again, a terrifying archangel of darkness. Surely only God could punish this for utter sins.

"I want you to return here every day. I want to see you again, Christine. Please." Her freedom wasn't an easy thing to give, but he knew he couldn't keep her where they were. He couldn't break her even more. Christine nodded shakily, panic visible in her eyes. "After dusk, I will be waiting for you. Tell no one of this, for no one will believe you. They will think you mad."

"Yes… master." Christine said dutifully, dully, understanding that the Devil wasn't to be refused. She still wasn't willing to believe that anyone but the Devil would be scarred this horribly, this permanently.

Erik sighed. She was a catholic, bound by the beliefs of her religion. Those chains would yet have to be broken if she was to truly understand that there was nothing to be feared from him. For now, however, he let it be. Perhaps those chains would yet be useful and bring her back to him when all else would fail.

"You mustn't fear me – I would kill myself before hurting you."

Again, Christine nodded and repeated the two words that granted her temporary freedom from what she thought to be damnation. Sinn was sweet and its seduction strong… and she scolded herself for not being strong enough to refuse one she looked upon with pity and fascination, even if he was indeed damned.


	7. Chapter 6

Attention, guys! This took long, but I'm leaving for a month on Sunday, to England, so I don't know how much I'll be able to write. Anyway, I think you will like this little chapter. It was the best I could come up with, anyway. Love it or hate it, but definitely review it!

X X X

**Chapter 6**

X X X X

Each day progressed in the same way, never changing. Christine completed her duties at the de Chagny estate, then hurried straight to the church, prayed for a while and left in the company of her captor. She spoke less and seemed to lose some of her regained cheerfulness, as Marguerite warily spotted after a few days. And it was true – Christine was now almost always calm and quiet, though not in the way she had been previously. No, she wasn't afraid… simply highly aware of the fact that she could break free of this horror, if she attempted to, but she still submitted to it, for reasons only heaven above knew.

She avoided all questions about her new mood, leaving Marguerite worried and prodding, without success. They had become friends during the months together and the brunette was astonished to see this sudden change. She suspected it had something to do with the Vicomte de Chagny – it had been suspicious when he had asked her for Christine's whereabouts. And truly, Christine did seem to be putting all of her energy into avoiding the young Vicomte, never staying in the room when he arrived.

The estate, meanwhile, was in full battle-readiness, as Marguerite called it, because the ball that was supposed to be the moment when the future Vicomtess would be picked was less than a week away. Guests from all over the country – and the surrounding countries as well – were pouring into Paris, to stay at the guest rooms of the estate. The maids were as overworked as ever and Marguerite kept reminding Suzette that she was also a servant, thus she also had to work.

It had been almost two weeks since the terrible revelation in the chapel and Christine found herself feeling something other than simply fear and tinges of anger. She kept envisioning the life her captor must have – must – lead simply because of what he looks like. Not that she for a moment believed that he wasn't able to handle himself. Even she had heard the whispered, hushed tales of a shade moving through the nightly city, slippery like vapor and frightening like the darkness.

The day before the ball, Christine finished her tasks at the now standard hour, said her goodbyes to Marguerite and headed towards the church, as she usually did. She had subconsciously learned to be precise about these things, just as she had learned to listen to Erik's words of love and hold back her tears, unable to say that she was sorry… but she wasn't able to love him, despite the wonders he had shown her. He had begun teaching her how to read and write. She wasn't a prodigy, but she was picking up things pretty fast. Soon, she was able to write her name with a shaky hand and draw a few simple sketches. However, she noticed that his writing wasn't much better than hers, for some reason. But everything else he could do, he did perfectly.

He had given her a picture of her, perfectly clean and fashionably clothed. Had she been able to see that she wasn't such a street urchin anymore, she would have believed that the girl on the paper was her. She thought that it was too beautiful to be her, but as a drawing of a stranger, it was wonderful. Never did he ask anything for teaching her or showing her these things – simply her company. And that she wasn't able to deny him. The Christian in her, while acutely aware and afraid that he must have sinned tremendously to be punished so, was beginning to believe that perhaps he was upon the path to atonement and that he was, somewhere deep down inside, as human as she was.

The moment she entered the church, she felt his gaze upon her. Automatically, she searched for him and found him at once, a towering figure in black clothing and a similar cape concealing his face, upon which he now wore a black mask, so that it wouldn't clash with the rest of the clothing. She approached him, not fearlessly, but confident that she was safe while with him.

_Here I am._ She thought. She didn't need to say that. Though his face was concealed, his strange eyes shone from beneath the hood… with strange warmth. The dark figure extended his hand and she took it without any protests, allowing him to lead her away from the house of God, back to the unused chapel where they found solace so often recently. She never found out where he took up residence while in this city.

It was a clear night, but the stars were out of sight the moment they entered the windowless chapel. With anyone else, Christine would have been mortified. But as Erik released her hand and lit a few candles, she closed the door behind them herself. His eyes found her again and Christine forced a small smile. She needed a few minutes to get used to him again… then it would be no problem at all.

"I have a gift for you today." Erik said softly lowering the hood of his cloak, revealing almost nothing save his black hair. "I think you will like it and it should fit you." Christine didn't understand until he produced a bundle of clothes and handed it to her, never touching her hands. This timidity had been strange at first, but then she understood that it was not out of resentment or respect, but out of fear that she would wince or show _her _resentment somehow.

Someone had taught him not to expect anything but resentment and disgust from others… and while she showed none since the night she saw his face – or tried hard not to – he didn't want to or couldn't drop this guard. It made her pity him even more.

Unwrapping the bundle, Christine gasped. It was a dress… a wonderful dress, certainly more beautiful than any of the ladies in the house wore and quite easily far more expensive. It was black with silver embroidery, making it seem like a star-covered sky. The dress was complete with a fan and a necklace of what seemed to be diamonds. The color might have suggested a mourning period, but overall, the dress was clearly meant for celebrations, not sadness.

"You like it." It wasn't a question and Christine clearly heard his smile in his voice. "I am glad. It's yours. But I don't think you should take it back to that estate you live in. If you wouldn't mind, I will keep it for now and you will wear it later on, for the de Chagny ball."

"The-the ball?" Christine asked, her heart racing, "You intend to go there? How…?"

"Dearest Christine, obtaining an invitation is easy, especially since so many people are coming. No one has to know that there is no such person as a Marquis Lefévre."

"Is that your name?" Christine asked, curious.

But Erik shook his head. "No. it was the name of one of the Christian captives in Persia I had to interrogate for the shah. A pleasing man, but old. I suppose I liked him in a way." Christine had heard him talking about Persia, but never about captives or shahs or anything about interrogating. However, Erik didn't seem keen to continue the conversation. "You seem sadder recently and I know that you will like a ball."

"And who will I be? Everyone will recognize me."

"Not with this." Erik said, producing a black veil and a matching mask decorated with silver. He handed it to her, taking the dress off her hands. "You will be the Marquise, of course. If you will oblige and come, that it." He added quietly.

Christine examined the gifts. They were far too wonderful for a plain girl like her, it seemed. Too beautiful. She had never held such beautiful – and expensive things – before. She looked up at Erik, who was still watching her intensely. "Why… why are you doing this for me?"

"I love you, Christine. Only you." he repeated softly, "I enjoy your company and I promised you that you will be happy. Are you happy now, Christine? Now that you have these things… do you feel happiness?"

She wasn't quite certain what to reply, so she simply nodded. Happiness had been scarce in her life, she was almost scared to define it. But this seemed to be happiness, the feeling that had burst up in her heart. A part of her – the feminine part – was growing satisfied. But something within her was still wary, not least of all because he had asked her to come with him as his wife.

"What could I give you in return?" Christine asked, still a bit scared. If he would simply tell her what he wanted from her! Things would be much easier with this little certainty, this small piece of information.

"Your company is sufficient for now, Christine." Erik said, pausing for a moment, then relieving her of the other things as well. They seemed to vanish from his hands, but Christine knew it wasn't so. It was a matter of seeing and not seeing things, as Erik had taught her about magic. "I intended to leave the city behind, but not when I have found such a wonderful reason to stay. Only if…" Christine looked up, "If you would… like to come with me." He said uncertainly, "You wouldn't have to work ever again, not as a servant, or wear those plain and austere clothes any longer. We could buy ourselves a house and live in peace! I swear you would be the happiest woman on earth, Christine, wearing only silk each day!" she wasn't able to back away and before she was able to even protest, he was, once more, down on his knees in front of her, taking her hands in his. "You tremble… but you needn´t, Christine! You needn´t fear me, I would never, ever risk hurting you. You would be happy forever, Christine, you would have all you wish!"

"Go… and where would we go?" her voice was almost inaudible.

"Wherever you would wish!" Erik cried, "Anywhere in the world would be our home, I can promise you that! Never again would you need to fear anyone or anything."

Yes, Christine thought. That was true. She wasn't afraid when with Erik. Somehow, viewing the offer from another point of view, she began to see the pluses. There were dangers in the world she wasn't ready for… and she knew well that no one but another beggar like her would ever considering marrying her. And what then? She would bear a few children… and then have to bear drunken beatings, perhaps. And with this man, who had protected her for so long, another path seemed to be offering itself to her. Granted, she was terrified of his face. Indeed, she thought that he was repulsive when it came to that…. But without seeing the face, she had never thought him hideous. Rather, there was some kind of strange grace around him, making him not the evil of the crude kind, but a sublime, efficient and elegant evil, a true devil, cunning and graceful, hiding the one terrible secret he had.

After all, what was wrong with this man, save for his face?

_The Lord teaches us to forgive sinners… _her prejudice must have been great, she knew… and why not accept a lesser evil, when she could be safe and happy?

_Lies…_ a voice in the back of her mind said.

_Lies, selfish lies… you want to be safe, you care nothing for him, nothing for his happiness. You will be a wretched, damned creature if you give him your hand in marriage, willingly, and then refuse him the right matrimony gives him – to call you his wife and take you for his own. You will quiver, but not with passion. You will turn away and hurt him and strike where it hurts the most. You will betray him. _

But she couldn't admit to herself how true the words were. She wanted… needed… safety. And she couldn't spend her whole life as a chambermaid, that existence gave her no fulfillment. And, as the wife of Erik, she would forget the matter of Raoul de Chagny and her foolish dreams about the two of them, about him, about the moment he had approached her in the church and her heart had begun to race…

"Erik…" she whispered, her throat very dry, even more so when he looked up at her with the childlike immense hope that she couldn't bear to crush. And while her mind cried that it would be a mercy to allow him to know the truth, to know that her heart was breaking due to her pity and that she didn't know what she was supposed to do, her breaking heart made the decision it thought held more compassion.

"I will marry you."


	8. Chapter 7

After so long, after five weeks, four in England, one recovering, I am back with a fresh chapter and a pretty long one too! End of the first act is at hand, folks!

X X X  
**  
Chapter VII**

X X X X

The night of the ball was drawing closer and closer and Christine paled each day until Marguerite would swear she would vanish like a phantom when next to the white walls. She kept asking her friend about what was wrong, with no avail, until she discovered Christine in her room, all alone, crying into what seemed to be a black veil. Never had she displayed this much emotion… or such despair. The girl was lapsing into hysteria with each passing moment, rocking back and forth on the chair, gripping the veil, but obviously careful not to tear it or in any way damage it.

"I can't do this, I cannot, I must not, please forgive me, forgive me…" she kept sobbing, muttering, until finally Marguerite couldn't stand the sight of it any longer and approached her, hugging her around her shoulders.

Christine would have clearly been startled, had she not been exhausted from crying. Her face was gaunter than ever, her eyes red, and she seemed to be fighting back despairing wails. Marguerite tried to take the veil away from her, but the blonde's fingers were clutching it tightly. But she didn't fight Marguerite as the brunette carefully took the veil away from her, merely stared at the piece of fabric as if it had harmed her. Raising Christine's chin with her hand, Marguerite sat down on the ground in front of the girl.

"Christine, what's the matter with you?" she asked, unable to hide her concern. "Something is very wrong here. You keep crying when you think I don't see you, you barely talk to me anymore and you eat as if your meal was for five others. I want to help you, please tell me what is wrong."

More tears fell from Christine's large eyes and she squeezed them shut, shaking her head wildly for a moment. "I will go to Hell." she whispered shakily.

"Why do you say such things? Christine…" the chambermaid reached out to take Christine's hand and felt her skin brush over something solid… metal… quickly, Christine attempted to wrench her hand out of sight and reach, but Marguerite was faster. She pulled the small hand towards her and saw, gasping slightly, a golden band on one of the thin fingers. Simple, graceful, golden.

A wedding ring.

Christine covered her face with her free hand as she began sobbing again.

Marguerite overcame the primary shock within a matter of a few seconds. "You… you have promised yourself to a man! But that is no reason to be crying, Christine, that is a wonderful thing!" she smiled, but Christine only sobbed on, "More than wonderful! Who is he, do I know him? Oh, I envy you so, truly… I never had much time for marriage…yet."

"Marguerite," Christine gasped, revealing part of her face, "Marguerite, I have sinned so terribly! I have lied into the face of an angel! I…"

"Slow down, you aren't making sense." Marguerite interrupted. "Who is the man you have promised your hand in marriage to? He is rich, I see it, this is gold you have here." then she covered her mouth with her hand. "Surely not…"

Christine forgot to cry for a moment as she realized what her friend was implying. She shook her head quickly. "No, no, not the Vicomte, no. This man, he is French, but he has only recently returned here. He… at first I believed him to be heaven-sent, Marguerite, his voice… I lived in the dream that he was an angel sent by my father to guide me! And I… I was blind and stupid!"

"Do you mean to tell me you didn't say yes?"

"No…" Christine drifted off for a moment, her eyes glassy, "I said yes… I said yes… and it was a lie, Marguerite, a lie!" she shrieked, "I do not love him! I pity him for the darkness he must live in and wish him well, but I do not love him! I cannot!"

Marguerite tightened her grip on her hand. "But then why have you said yes? And why do you say you cannot love him – whoever he is, I will not press you. He is the one you have been going away to while I had to tell Monsieur le Vicomte that you were in church, yes?"

"I was in church." Christine childishly defended herself. "With him. We always met there. Before I knew… before I saw…" she took a breath, "His face… it is… mutilated… deformed… he wears a mask at all times… but beneath, he isn't a monster, not to me. That was why I said yes. He gives me everything I might ever dream of, material and spiritual, yet I do not, cannot love him! I am wicked; Marguerite, wicked, and I will go to Hell for this! I said yes!"

"No – because you love le Vicomte de Chagny." Marguerite said, unsmiling when Christine cast her a frightened glance. "I see it. I saw it before either of you did. He noticed you only later, but you couldn't help your daydreams. But Christine, you mustn't daydream now. Remember that this ball we're having is to secure him a wife. Even if he does love you in return, he cannot marry you. His brother would never allow it. Be reasonable. There is no future for that. Stories like this can't come true."

"So you say that I should accept the consequences of my actions?" Christine asked bitterly, "I know I must… but I am so afraid." She shivered.

"A promise is a promise, especially in marriage." Marguerite said, "However, you aren't married yet. You can still change your mind. But don't be hasty about it. Marriage out of love is wonderful, but not all of us can afford the luxury. Besides, you hear about marriages for money, land or other gain all the time. And you might come to love your husband eventually."

"Twisted every way," Christine whispered, "Can I betray the man who made my soul soar before I had been exposed to the truth? And do I have a choice in it? After all, everyone gets something out of it. I cannot refuse even if I wanted to… he would never let me go."

A frown crossed Marguerite's face as she listened to those words. "Don't cry anymore, Christine. You cannot sit here as if the world was ending. Come, we will go for a stroll; you will not have to think of this anymore. We will then sort out the cleaned gowns for the ladies here and pretend we can wear them. Come."

Christine stood up, nodding meekly. More thought about this and her heart would burst. And then again, perhaps, seeing that Raoul – the Vicomte, she corrected her thoughts – had picked a suitable bride for himself would stop the pain she felt when she thought of him and allow her to be herself again. Then, she might see a light at the end of the dark tunnel through which she was going now.

X X X

The ball was a lavish spectacle of colors, sounds and masks. A masked ball – the perfect chance for Raoul to find a wife without being concerned about her appearance or name, the ideal way of finally settling down and sealing the future of the family. However, Raoul de Chagny wasn't happy with this arrangement, though he had agreed to do it. He wanted no wife, at least none of those posh, simpering, pampered ladies offered to him by his brother. Philippe meant well, but couldn't understand this. What the young Vicomte craved most was freedom…

And then, Christine Daaé came into the picture.

He had to untangle himself from a less-than-entertaining conversation about the latest fashion in France from a couple of ladies, including Baroness Carlotta Giudicelli, who, according to Philippe's heavy hints, was an ideal match. No doubt the woman was beautiful and rich, but she seemed so shallow. They all did.

Christine Daaé.

Why had she not been born a noblewoman? These days, she vanished on him as soon as she saw him, disappearing in the hallways, but at times, he managed to catch a line or two from some peasant song she was at times singing to herself while working. Recently, even those quiet songs fell silent and it seemed that the house was very much quiet. Truly, Raoul had been spending more time at home – but because of her, not because any of the ladies, which they might have hoped. Christine Daaé, who grew more radiant each day before vanishing in a ray of light.

The beautifully hideous and large ballroom was a mass of gold and red, gowns of each color, masks of any shape you pleased. Most of the visitors were ladies, naturally, but they had their chaperones and relatives with them. But Raoul, whom everyone knew, mask or no, was attempting to spot _her_ among the servants, without avail.

Finally, tired and despairing, he decided to hurry away from the room and get some air. But almost at once, he barely avoided knocking a butler off his feet and promptly crashed into one of the ladies, whose heavy dress gave away underneath her. Immediately, the Vicomte rushed to help her to her feet, apologizing many times.

"No-no harm done, Monsieur." She replied after an awkward moment. Though he couldn't see an inch of her face, due to a thick black veil, her voice was unmistakable.

"Christine…" he whispered, with newfound life in his voice.

She, knowing herself to be recognized, began slipping away through the crowd in panic, almost running into the gardens. Raoul rushed after her, now uncaring whether or not he knocked away any guests. Her black clothes almost made her vanish into the night, but he knew his home well and caught her by the tiny gloved hand in the orchard. She resisted, but only weakly, gave a dry sob, but surrendered as he carefully caught her other hand and turned her to him.

Richly clad she was, like a princess, almost, but like a mourning one. There was a silver diadem upon her curls as he pushed the veils aside, as if this was their wedding day. He face was painted up a bit, but only slightly. The jewels she wore were doubtless worth a fortune. How a simple girl like her had gotten a queen's garb, he had no idea.

"Please, sir, please, don't tell on me." she sobbed, "I know I shouldn't have come, but I thought that no one would notice me. Please, let me go, sir, I must go now, I must…" she stopped, as if realizing something fearfully and looked around with unmistaken horror. "I must leave, sir, I must! Oh, if _he _were to see…!"

"He?" The Vicomte asked, gripping her hands more tightly to stop her from slipping away. "You are here with a man? He gave you these… clothes, these jewels?"

Christine bit her lip, then gently withdrew a hand from his grasp and raised it. Upon the black glove, the golden ring shone brightly. "This… this is but a present, monsieur, but it forbids me to speak to you or to be with you. I must go!"

But Raoul only stared at the ring, as if a ton of bricks had hit him. She was engaged to be married. Engaged! And, by the looks of it, to a more than wealthy gentleman. To whom? Who had gotten her yes from her? "You… you have a fiancé?" Raoul stuttered, "You are to be married… Christine!"

Shuddering, Christine put a finger to her mouth and pulled him away deeper into the orchard, looking around feverishly as she did so. Only once they were out of sight of the house did she stop. For an engaged woman, she was very nervous.

"Monsieur, I explain this to you because you want to know. I am… engaged. My husband-to-be is… is a good man." It was clear to the Vicomte that this wasn't what she had meant to say. "He is… strict, he disapproves of your attempts to seek my company, however unintentional they might be."

The Vicomte almost laughed. In fact, he did, but dryly. "Unintentional! Christine, my love for you might be unintentional, but my attempts to speak with you most certainly aren't!"

Immediately, she went chalk-white, then her cheeks gained a rosy color. "Do not jest, please, monsieur, I have little time. I…"

But the Vicomte took her face into his hands, forcing her to look at him. "Mademoiselle, I curse myself every day for it. Understand that I have been brought up to believe that classes must remain as they are and that a scandal as a marriage between them is horror unleashed. But you haven't sought any of this, the blame lies with me, with me for cherishing the sound of your voice, the look of your face… all of you. I know I shouldn't say these things, but I must, before you truly marry the man who gave you that ring. I shouldn't marry you, but I can. I care nothing for titles. I can renounce them… and for you, I would. Simply tell me what your eyes are saying, that you love me in return, and by tomorrow, we will be far from Paris, together, away for a new life!"

As he spoke, Christine looked at him with wide eyes, thinking of the possibilities surfacing from this dream. Titles were nothing. He meant everything. "Raoul…" she breathed.

"Yes, speak those words, Christine, please!"

And then it seemed that she saw stars where they shouldn't be and at once she was back on the ground, wriggling out of his grasp. "No! No, you are foolish, monsieur, more so than I! I have promised myself to a man who is good…"

"And yet you don't say you love him!" the Vicomte interjected. At once, Christine fell silent, lowering her head in shame. "Your mouth may lie, mademoiselle, but your eyes do not!" he said triumphantly.

"What does it matter? My mouth spoke words that bound me to him. I do not deserve him, or you. What use is love? What can it help us in a battle against the world when with Erik there is naught but peaceful darkness…" she said softly.

"Erik?" Raoul asked quickly and Christine clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Do not speak his name, monsieur, I beg you! He might be near!" at once, she looked around, but saw nothing. "I beg you, monsieur, forget me and find happiness."

"Happiness? I feel happiness now, mademoiselle, because you fear for me, because your voice trembles!"

"You are blinded by your own hopes." She shook her head. "My hand belongs to another."

"But your lips are unclaimed still!" said the Vicomte softly and, before she could stop him or escape, closed the distance between them, drew her nearer and caught her mouth with his own.

Had any reason remained then, it would have told Christine to pull away. Had she realized, remembered what danger they were both in, she would have remembered her reason. But there was no reason. There was no world, no dark, no light. There was only this moment and it would last a lifetime. No need for fear as long as he was close. Uncharted distances and unnamed fears were far away, only peace and tranquility were near. The heat was more than either could bear, but even the blazes of inferno couldn't have torn them apart. When they did, it was out of the human need for air, and the young Vicomte watched his beloved's reddened face and trembling lips, her still closed eyes fearfully, anxiously opening.

"Your lips do not lie, mademoiselle." he breathed, "One word from you and I will follow you to the ends of the world."

A tear slipped down her cheek. "You truly love me, don't you?"

"With all my heart." A nod.

"Then guard me and guide me, love, Raoul, away from this world of wickedness and cruelty, where none can reach us or darken our days ever again. Dazzle me with talk of distant lands and the flowers that will grow in front of our house and the sun and the beauty. If you love me, I can conquer any danger."

The kiss that followed sealed their fates, entwining them, seemingly forever. But it couldn't silence the reason that should have sparked from the first moment within her mind.

_Lies._


	9. Chapter 8

This chapter is pretty dark at the end, so beware.

X X X

**Chapter VIII**

X X X X

"We must hurry, not waste even a minute." Christine spoke feverishly, "If _he _discovers… he will never let me go and we will be parted forever. Order your fine horses – be with them at the door. We must be quick."

The young Vicomte nodded and hastily departed, eyes full of love and adoration. But as Christine darted towards the service entrance, she realized that he didn't even have an inkling about the danger they were facing. Surely Erik wouldn't just allow her such a spectacular escape. They would have to be many miles away from Paris before the sun would rise, and even then, they would still be at risk. Perhaps they would have to depart the country, even.

Dashing into her room, Christine rid herself of the heavy skirt that slowed her down and the beautiful dress, debating for a moment with herself. Then, she neatly wrapped it in a bundle and placed it in the nearest bag, securing it, along with her jewels. They would need money, she knew, and she would be able to sell these. Her eyes traced the ring on her finger. And then, she saw that it was gone!

A flash of horror, like an electrical shock, passed through her. Her promise to wear it! She had lost the ring! If she would run into Erik now…

She shook her head. All the more reason to make haste. There wasn't the time to even write a note to Marguerite. She didn't have a quill or parchment, or the time. And she wasn't certain that her friend could read well. Well, she would know once the Comte de Chagny would realize his brother was gone. The later that would happen, the better. And the note could fall into the wrong hands.

Why was she leaving with Raoul? The thought pierced her mind for a moment. Why? From wealth to poverty – was love worth such a sacrifice? Outside this manor, Raoul had little material power. They would live like she used to, like peasants. Or worse, peasants would seem like lords compared to them. Beggars.

_No. _she shook her head, _With Raoul, there will be no pretending. There will be no lies, no burning shame. With him, there will be only love. _

No shame… her mind showed her the image of what they would leave behind. A family ripped apart. Marguerite, never knowing what had happened to her. Their mutual home, never to return. And not to mention _him…_ Erik wouldn't take her betrayal lightly. But he would ultimately understand… he would realize that she couldn't lie any longer. There were much worthier beings in the world that would be jubilant to share the gifts he could give.

_God bless you, Erik. I used to think you were a demon, but I was wrong. Yet I cannot be strong enough to prevail against my fear of you and return what you gave me. I don't deserve your love, because I return too little of it in return. _

She bit her lip, stopping for a moment.

_I lie to all, myself as well. To be able to face the feeling I have for you would require courage beyond what I have – and I am running away, do you see it? _

Turning on her heel, Christine quickly walked out of the room.

X X X

As Christine's form appeared out of the darkness, now dressed in simpler clothes, Raoul couldn't help to notice that she looked slightly anxious now, as if some burden weighted her down. She was probably having regrets, but she didn't hesitate to accept his hand as he helped her climb atop the horse. Clearly, she had never ridden before, but the Vicomte seated her in front of him, taking care to help her sit properly and securely. Then, he gave his horse a slight nudge and the mare obeyed easily, breaking into a run almost immediately.

Silent and only looking forward during the entire journey, Christine barely moved an inch, apparently lost in her own thoughts. Raoul felt he understood – he himself had had some regrets when he realized he was abandoning everything he had ever known. However, upon seeing Christine's countenance again, these thoughts vanished. Her pure and modest behavior was so in contrast with that of the women he had known that he realized that with her at his side, he was able to let go of everything else.

They could start a new life together, but it would have to be far from the reach of his brother. The most logical and probably safest choice was Britain – the two countries had never been overly friendly and he had no knowledge of any of his family's connections there. Calais and then across the sea… that seemed the wisest thing to do. They wouldn't have to travel far from the coast, but he preferred to put some distance between them and their former home. Once in Britain, it shouldn't be too difficult to find them a home or a job. He hadn't ever worked in the real sense of the word, but he had skills he had honed for his own pleasure that would certainly be of use to them.

And Christine wasn't afraid of labor herself, herself, she could find work as a maidservant again. As long as they would make it out of the country, their troubles would lessen a lot. They rode through the night, resting only the next day, briefly. The coast was many days ride away and though they had some food with them, Raoul made certain they stopped at least once a day to have a proper meal. He had his favored weapons with him, so they didn't have to buy many things on the way, because he knew that if Philippe would set out after them, he would ask around.

By the fourth day, Christine seemed to have calmed a bit. At least she didn't seem as gloomy as before. But she kept having bad dreams, nightmares, tossing through the night. Often, she would wake and sit up with a small gasp. But she never looked back… yet she barely spoke, answering only with a word or two. However, she always insisted that she was fine, merely tired by the journey.

"I am all right, Raoul." she would say softly. She had finally learnt to call him by name, but she still seemed to defer to him slightly. With time, she would learn to view him as her equal now, he was certain. After all, he had almost officially given up his title.

By the beginning of the second week of their journey, Raoul began to notice that she seemed to grow nervous again, as if she were a pursued prey. Something seemed wrong to her, but she tried not to show it around him. The second week drew to a close – his horse was tired and slept for longer periods of time, but he took care not to exhaust her too much. Christine, on the other hand, had trouble sleeping. The Vicomte was now almost afraid to leave her alone with the horse when he went hunting. But Christine insisted that nothing was wrong, lying through her teeth.

Raoul returned from hunting that day, satisfied, having killed a quite large deer that would feed them for the next few days easily. The surrounding woods were now quite known to him. The spot where his mare and Christine were hidden was well-concealed, but he found it immediately. Something was wrong, he knew. He heard the sounds of horses´ hooves somewhere not too far away. The Vicomte ran, quickly entering the small valley-like area they had chosen as a hiding place. It was a dark, foggy night, but he saw at once that Christine was missing. His snow white mare was tied in place, as usual, but Christine wasn't sitting where she usually sat, nowhere around.

Afraid, Raoul drew his sword and quickly ran to search for her. He saw her a minute later, her pale, austere gown and gold locks, disappearing in the forest. But she moved strangely, not as if against her will, but as if pulled away, unable to fight back against it. The Vicomte ran after her, but in a moment, she seemed to vanish in the misty darkness.

He almost collided with the horse that ran out of the darkness, but it didn't surprise him to see several of Philippe's soldiers enclosing him, shouting to one another and to the lord that they had found him. Philippe himself rode out of the darkness on his chestnut horse within the minute, looking both frightened and angry at the same time. Raoul´s mare was led into the clearing within a moment.

The Comte de Chagny observed his brother for a moment, relieved, but not happy. He didn't start a lecture or yell, but the disappointment was visible in his eyes. "Where is the witch?" he then asked coldly.

Raoul didn't understand what he was saying. "Witch?"

The Comte leapt off his horse and walked towards his brother, still looking at him coldly. "Raoul, you don't have any idea what you've done. I cannot have it known that you, the Vicomte de Chagny, would simply run off with a ragged peasant girl!"

"I love her!" the Vicomte spat, folding his arms.

"Love doesn't mean you have to abandon your duties to the family, the name!" Philippe shook his head, "She's bewitched you, brother. You wouldn't have ever done such a thing if you would have been in your right mind."

Raoul laughed humorlessly, darkly, knowing what they all thought. Unable to understand him, they had come to the conclusion that Christine was the one to blame. Christine, who hadn't encouraged their romance at all, who wasn't in the least responsible. Witchcraft! Of course. What other solution, what other explanation for his infatuation with a working class girl with no dowry, no future, no prospects?

And he understood that Christine had fled from them, knowing that there was nothing she could do to warn him. Or perhaps… the Vicomte paled. What if her fiancé, the one of whom she didn't dare even speak, had come to collect her? What if… she was in danger and she couldn't have fought back?

Philippe, however, seemed to misinterpret his brother's sudden horror. "At last, the enchantment is lifting! You've realized it!"

One of the soldiers rode towards them. "Sir, there is no sign of the woman around here. If she was here, she must have run off."

The Comte nodded grimly, then returned his attention to his brother. "You will return to the manor with me, brother. It is likely your "paramour" will be there – she must have vanished with her dark powers to befoul and besmirch our home, now that we have denied her triumph over you. She will be captured and burned, as all witches should be."

"You are mad!" Raoul shouted, "You would condemn an innocent just to prevent some gossip!"

The Comte didn't bother answering, simply turned away and walked to his horse. There was no outrunning or escaping, Raoul knew. He could only hope that Christine was safe and faring better than him.

X X X

Like a lifeless doll, Christine allowed herself to be led away. She saw that Raoul had hurried after them, but she knew that calling him was impossible and would only make her situation worse. Her limpness had done nothing to dissuade Erik from dragging her through the woods. She knew it was him – only he would have been able to find her in the middle of the night. She had been afraid that he was following them, but had attempted to believe that it was simply guilt chasing her.

Clearly, it hadn't been.

She didn't resist as she was put on the horse and lost consciousness soon, entering a deep slumber, only occasionally broken. But she had stayed awake long enough to realize that they had crossed distances much quicker than she had with Raoul. Erik didn't seem to eat or sleep, or need to, and she, being unconscious most of the time, only felt the food being gently forced into her mouth sometimes. She ate automatically, like a sick person that was attentively being taken care of.

Finally, she woke up strong enough. Her surroundings were familiar. It was the chapel near the church in Paris where she had first been exposed to the horror of her dreams. Now, she was lying on a few blankets, covered with another. But she was a captive, clearly, for when she tried to open the doors of the empty chapel, she realized that they were locked. Christine hacked at them with all her strength, but it was no good.

Her emotions took over. She stumbled back into her corner, sobbing, and collapsed into a heap upon the floor. How long she had been crying, she didn't know, but she was very tired when the doors finally opened and her captor calmly walked in, not paying the least attention to her tears or her hysterical sobbing.

"Erik," she gasped, "please… please…"

"Please what, my dear?" it was a cold hiss, unlike anything she had ever heard from him. "Understand that you are perfectly free to run off with whoever you please? Of course! Naturally! After all, who besides your beloved Vicomte can guard you and guide you, especially when your life is threatened with such a horrendous existence!" He turned away for a moment and then suddenly moved to her quickly. Christine let out a shriek as if he had slapped her, but he grabbed her shoulders and brought her closer to him, close enough to see a bit of the pale skin around his eyes that was uncovered by the mask. "Why, Christine? Why? Your promise!" he produced the golden ring which she thought she had lost some time ago and flung it into her face. It landed on the ground with a click and Christine covered her face with her hands as Erik let go of her.

"Why have you promised to be mine when you run off with that boy at the first opportunity!" he demanded in a thunderous roar, "Oh, of course you cannot help but love him, with his wealth and beauty! But do you think you would have survived one day as a married couple? Do you think he would be able to renounce his world for you, Christine? Oh, indeed, he is a romantic hero, he would! And suppose he just wanted to have his way with you and then he would abandon you in the woods! He never promised you marriage in his little rant in the gardens, did he?"

Christine continued sobbing, but shook her head frantically. "Stop it, please, Erik, I never meant to hurt you, I never…" she screamed hysterically, "I cannot, I cannot!"

But the dark figure straightened up slowly, gracefully, observing her for a moment. "Your lover has been dragged back home by his elder brother. You cannot return to their estate. You have nowhere to go now. You have nothing left but me, Christine." Erik paused for a moment, his shining eyes never blinking or moving away from her. "I don't need to take you as my wife in front of a God whom I despise, Christine. But if you need such bonds to make you open your eyes, then so be it. We will leave this city, this country, at nightfall today. New clothes for you are here." He placed a bundle on the ground of the chapel. "I will return soon and hope that you will have come to your senses then and realized the truth."

"Don't leave me here alone!" Christine cried, "You cannot leave me locked here like this!"

The towering dark figure turned to her slightly, almost as if half-amused. "You would cause a commotion, screaming on the road, struggling. Here, no one will hear you. No one visits this chapel. The few hours we have left will be enough to calm you. If not, I shall be forced to gag you." He seemed to have calmed down somewhat, knowing that she didn't have a chance of escape. "Try to rest, my dear. You will need strength for the journey."

Within a moment, the chapel was empty, despite Christine's scream of protest. Again, she attempted to open the door by force, but no avail. Finally, exhausted, her knuckles reddened, she gave up and approached the bundle of clothes ready for her. The dress was clean and of a pretty shade of blue, along with a bonnet for her hair and a dark blood red cape. They were traveling but fashionable clothes, but Christine tossed them aside. She knew she couldn't escape and lapsed into crying again for a moment.

But she knew of one escape. However, she didn't yet dare attempt it. Not until her voice would vanish from screaming.


	10. Chapter 9

This took me ages, people, but I needed to do a lot of stuff and the ending of this chapter gave me a lot of trouble. I'm planning at least one more chapter and an epilogue, but who knows, maybe the plot will stretch a bit more. I wanted to do this uniquely.

X X X

**Chapter IX**

X X X X

On and on Christine banged against the stone walls with her tiny fists, to no avail. Shrieks and wails coming from her throat grew continually fainter, until she felt that she could perhaps hurt her vocal chords. But it didn't matter to her – she wouldn't ever sing again. Women couldn't sing in church anyway, not openly. After the first hour, she had exhausted much of her strength and collapsed to the floor in dry sobs. She cried for herself, mostly. She had been so stupid to believe… to imagine…

And Raoul – goodness only knew what became of him. Somehow, she had no trouble imagining Erik "dispatching" of her runaway fiancé without the slightest problem. There was nothing she could do, but it only deepened her misery. There was no possible escape route from the chapel except for the door, which was locked tight, and the windows, which were too high to reach and too small to crawl through. She was trapped.

Wild thoughts raced through her head. What would become of her? Surely no wedding would take place now – even if she had been willing to accept the compromise before, Erik's rage at her betrayal would mean little more than enslavement for her. After all, when had she ever had the strength to stand up to him or even object to anything he said?

_I'm afraid of you, Erik. _She didn't even dare say it out loud, so sore was her throat. Only wails similar to those of a dying bird escaped her throat. _I'm afraid because I cannot hate you but I'm too weak to love you… but I can't pity you anymore. _

In silence she sat for a while, shivering, though the room wasn't cold, curling into a ball on the floor. And then, after minutes of silence, she realized that there was yet a way to escape the prison.

X X X

As soon as he had left the chapel, the urge to scream his lungs out in burning rage was almost too strong to control. The pitiful wails that were only whispers to those outside the chapel were almost enough to drive Erik crazy, especially since he knew what must be going on inside. Nevertheless, he strode away from the door after securing it with one of his tricks, ensuring that no one would be able to open it from wither side without breaking down the door. He wanted to leave her there for at least an hour, striding into the church to await the moment.

Leaving Christine locked in an empty room with only her cries to accompany her required tremendous strength of will and had he not been so filled with the image of her happy face when she was with the Vicomte de Chagny, he would have perhaps lost the power to punish her at the moment of her capture. But even the promise hadn't been strong enough to bind her. Even that vow and the ring that she lost… he had collected it easily enough after they left. It had been the moment of a dreadful revelation, but that it had come soon enough was, in a way, a blessing. He now knew to whose image Christine turned whenever he attempted to make her understand that she had been the only creature to move him in his long, lonely life.

Ever on the move, ever fleeing, he had never lasted long in any country or town. Only at the beginning, after his desperate flight from the monastery, did he have any faith in the human race. It had vanished quickly enough. Not all humans were like Sister Antoinette, the kindly nun had taught him to love God. And Sister Antoinette had lived in folly. To love God was to love punishment without a crime, injustice…

And Sister Antoinette was dead. Old age had certainly taken her by now. Did she now know all the answers? Had she looked her God in the face and seen what she believed she would see? He would know soon enough. He had had quite enough of life by the time he had encountered Christine. The fact that there still existed a being he could cherish and care for was so overwhelming that he had forgotten his bitterness for a while.

He couldn't, wouldn't accept that God would decide to torment him further by giving him a Daphne that had no other wish than to flee from him. But then, he was more Hades than the bright sun god Apollo from whom the nymph fled in myth.

The church he entered was empty, due to both the lateness of the hour and the fact that everyone still hurried around their homes to complete the daily chores. Erik didn't kneel in front of the altar as he approached it, as any good Christian would. His eyes simply traced the outline of the fine work of art, then rested on the wooden cross and the Christ upon it. He didn't view it with anger or hatred, just a weary, wary acceptance of its presence there. There had been a time when he would have been able to renounce the bitterness that had carried him through his life for the past decades, but for now, there was no other path than the one he had set his feet on long ago.

He then remembered the time. Christine had been locked in her prison for over an hour… and strangely, he didn't feel remotely sorry about it, only a slight twinge of regret. Then again, she had probably suffered enough and exhausted herself by now – there wouldn't be a problem with her anymore. And she would need strength for the journey, exhaustion wouldn't do her well. After a moment of thought, he decided that such a scare might be all too much for the poor girl. After all, she was still a very naïve creature. He might as well let her out.

Withdrawing from the church, he approached the sealed chapel and easily opened the door, only to almost jump back in horror. The sight of Christine, blood streaming down her face, crying, but nevertheless attempting to force herself to bang her head against the wall again, was paralyzing, even as she turned her fearful eyes to him, the source of the intrusion. Recovering quickly, Erik was at once within the room, tearing off a stripe of the blanket he had left her and wrapping it around her forehead to stop the rapid bleeding. Thank goodness it hadn't occurred to her to hang herself on the clothes he had left her.

Christine didn't even struggle as he half-dragged, half-pulled her away from the wall and safely to the center of the room. She was still crying soundlessly and beneath the blood, her face was clearly chalk-white.

"Why have you done that?" Erik demanded, a bit harshly, grasping her shoulders. Her frightened expression made him soften his tone a bit. "The bruises will heal, but you will have a headache and feel nauseous for a few hours."

And then, resoluteness sparked in the trembling girl. "Let me go." she said almost inaudibly. "Please let me go."

"You don't understand in the least, Christine. The noble Comte de Chagny, in an attempt to prevent a scandal, proclaimed you a witch that poisoned the mind of his gullible younger brother. If his servants catch you, I can promise you that you will never feel cold again." Erik paused, studying her for a moment. "Is it so terrifying a thought to go with me? Can't you even bear the thought of being my wife, so you choose such a desperate way to kill yourself instead?"

"I couldn't… deceive you anymore." Her lip trembled, but she didn't look away anymore. "I couldn't… I love Raoul…"

"But of course." Erik gave a sneer, "A proper romance needs a sacrifice, doesn't it?"

"Please, Erik… let me go." Christine continued, as if she hadn't heard him at all.

The yellow eyes studied her for a moment, weighting the opinions. She was stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the truth… or perhaps she was simply so naïve. But then again, if he wouldn't let her see for herself, she would never fully understand. She would never realize that the world she had known was beyond her reach now.

"Very well, Christine." She didn't seem to believe what she was hearing. "I will let you go. Go to your Vicomte. I release you." Christine's eyes lit up hopefully, but still there was doubt behind them. "Go now… go…" Erik stood up, turning away from her. "But…" Christine had been about to stand up and froze as his gaze fixed on her again. "If you need me, all you have to do it call for me."

It seemed that Christine wasn't even able to think, let alone speak in response. She finally straightened up, she lowered her head. "Thank you," she whispered, "I was afraid… thank you, God bless you a thousand times, Erik." The door was unlocked now and she slipped through it without a glance back, hurrying away, though she swayed a bit because of her nausea.

Erik didn't turn as the door closed behind him, only closed his eyes for a moment.

X X X

Marguerite almost didn't believe her eyes when she saw the figure of Christine, in bloodstained clothes, hair flying loose and a cloth wrapped around her forehead, which was apparently the source of the bleeding, stumble into the kitchen. She sprang to her feet from her chair and moved to support the girl till she sat down at the nearest table.

For a while, it seemed that she would still faint, but as Marguerite fetched a bucket of hot water and a clean cloth to clean the wound, Christine seemed to regain her strength. She wouldn't answer any questions, simply continued asking if Raoul was back yet.

The chambermaid was perplexed. "Christine, the Comte and probably all of his men went away to search for Raoul and you – that you ran away together was the scandal of the neighborhood, if not the city!" she gave a little gasp, "You mustn't stay here! If the Comte returns and finds you here… Christine, they said you are a witch!" Marguerite lamented, biting her lip. "I don't believe that, trust me, but when it comes to keeping a scandal at bay…"

Christine nodded, staring into space. "Erik said it would happen."

"Erik? Well, never mind now, you need to get out of here." Marguerite said at once. "You said you had a fiancé – go away with him, start a new life, it will buy you freedom, as long as you are away, they can say you just vanished in a puff of smoke or something."

"He let me go." The blonde whispered, "So I could be with Raoul. And so I'll stay."

"You don't understand!" Marguerite cried in despair. But before she could elaborate, just as Christine turned her misty gaze to her, the sound of horses was heard outside. People rushed around and before Marguerite could notice, Christine, with a surprising vitality, rushed out of the room.

Marguerite quickly came to her senses and ran after her screaming: "Wait!" to no avail. It was a surprise that stains of blood didn't appear behind Christine, so fast she appeared to be running. She ran into the courtyard where the riders were just dismounting. The Vicomte de Chagny was among them, but didn't look remotely pleased. But then he spotted her and immediately rushed towards her with a cry of her name. They met in a crushing embrace that was almost painful and only when they separated for a moment did Raoul see that her face was bloody.

"Christine… Christine what has happened to you?" the Vicomte asked, running a hand through her hair gently but fearfully, "You vanished… who has hurt you." And then he realized… "Was it he? Was it the man you gave your word to?"

The girl smiled, despite her horrible visage, as if to say that all was all right now that they were together. "No, he didn't… no… he let me go to be with you…"

"It seems the Devil indeed punishes those who fail him." Said the voice of the count from nearby and arms wrestled the two apart. The Comte de Chagny, Philippe, was eying Christine with anger as he stepped forward, ignoring the struggling of his brother, who shouted that Christine was innocent. "For your sins against God, Servant of Lucifer, fit punishment would be to be sent back to your black master." He noted coolly. "However, God teaches us to be merciful. After putting into consideration that you have been thwarted and perhaps fought against the orders of the Beast, as Lord of the land, I have decided that you should be given over to the holy women at St. Mary's, to join their ranks. Perhaps they can save your soul and redeem you in the eyes of Our Lord. The Mother Superior has received a letter from me and should reply any day. I am confident she will accept you into their order after an exorcism is performed. Until then, you will be kept in your room."

"No!" Raoul shouted, struggling again, but the Comte turned on his heel and proceeded to walk back towards the estate, not sparing a glance at anyone.

Christine didn't struggle. She didn't even seem to realize anything. Only when the key locked the door of her prison of a room, then, immediately, she began to scream out Erik's name. Whether he heard or not, she didn't know or care. Only he had told her she was to do it when she was in need… and thus she did.

But no one answered and it seemed that she was once again sealed in that chapel.

She was to become a nun! She was to spend her entire life in a prison such as this one! Erik had been right that she shouldn't have returned… from what she overheard by listening at the keyhole, Raoul had been locked away just as she, until the letter from the Mother Superior would arrive, since he was probably still under the effects of her "enchantment". Marguerite wasn't allowed to visit her, food was brought by a guard who didn't even look at her. Three days went by in this nature.

And, on the morning of the fourth, she was awakened rudely by a loud crash from somewhere in the house and a series of connected screams.


	11. Chapter 10

I know, I know, I know, but hey, I'm not dead! I've had loads to do and little time or will to write, plus my inspiration was on freezing point. This is the end of this phic, it was actually half-written months ago, but I never had the energy to finish it. I hope it's realistic and doesn't drag on. Kudos!

X X X

Chapter X

X X X X

It sounded as if an important wall of the house went crushing down on its own accord, but Christine, even in her sleepy and unaware state, knew better than the rest of the estate. Unable to escape her prison, she could only sit and wait for any kinds of hushed voices behind the door. And hasty steps came, and her door was flung open, two guards entering briskly. Without a word, the two soldiers seized her by the arms and raised her from her wooden chair, dragging her through the mansion to the main ball room, where she had spent the last moments of tranquil life, masquerading as a lady of rank and station. The room was crowded now, maidservants with brooms and sacks everywhere, a few valets organizing the cleaning up.

In the midst of this chaos stood the Comte de Chagny, with a deep frown on his slightly aging face, which deepened as he spotted Christine being led in. And once the sun outside resurfaced from behind the clouds, Christine finally saw what was wrong. The ground seemed to be covered with tiny diamonds, sparkling, and the metallic construction and candles in the middle of the ballroom showed that it was in fact so.

The giant chandelier, a pride of the estate, that hung from the ceiling perhaps moments before, was now lying unceremoniously on the ground, shattered to a zillion pieces. It was fortunate that no one had been hit by it, otherwise they would have certainly gotten killed. However, the expression n the Comte´s face signified that if it would have saved the expensive chandelier, he wouldn't give a damn as to who would get killed.

Within the next few moments, Christine, despite her shock, was able to deduce what had happened.

"It's him." She whispered, looking at the fragments of glass, as if it were obvious to her.

The moment she reached down to touch or pick up a piece of the shattered chandelier, a majordomos entered the room, leading in a priest and a few black-clad women, clearly nuns. The one that seemed eldest was clearly the Mother Superior the Comte had mentioned to her earlier, but she, like the other nuns, didn't seem to be as approving and as benevolent as the Comte had described them. It seemed they looked at Christine as if they were looking at a pile of dung, which, in her mind, was somewhat unfounded. Held captive she might be, but she was quite clean and her dress was properly put on. Even her hair was clipped correctly.

After the Comte bowed to the priest and the nuns, the situation was explained to them. Apparently, the chambermaids were cleaning to room when suddenly, the gigantic chandelier dropped on its own accord, for no particular reason. The servants had already inspected it and there seemed really no reason why it misplaced its equilibrium all of a sudden. The servants were muttering among themselves now, edging away from Christine.

"This is the girl I have been telling you about." The Comte continued, still calmly. "We believe she is or, at the very least, was possessed by the Devil, who made her attempt to bring evil to our household. We have kept her in isolation for the past few days, hoping that you would counsel us and hopefully rid her body of the evil spirit. The incident that occurred today shows, in my opinion, that the demon is struggling to regain his control of her."

"The Devil is a cunning being, Monsieur le Comte, but as merciless to his own servants as he is to us." The Mother Superior said, the nuns and the priest nodding. She turned her attention to Christine, studying her face and the visible parts of her skin carefully, clearly searching for any marks or markings. "If this is the first time the possession occurred, we may be able to do something for the girl."

"You said your brother has been jinxed by this woman, made to fall in love with her - or rather, to be infatuated with her - and run away. Has the hex lifted, now that he is out of her reach, or at least lessened?" the priest inquired.

"I have locked him in his room for the time being, but he is proving difficult." The Comte said with a deep sigh. "I won't lie to you, Father, I am afraid for his health. I know he is young and rash, but I had hoped that in time, he would have understood that I know better than he does what woman he should marry now, due to that youth that clouds his vision on the long run. But this is too… unnatural."

Frowning, the priest took a step towards Christine, carefully examining her face. after a minute, he proclaimed: "A troubling situation, this is. Those who fight off the devil are in more danger than those possessed and those that surround them need to trust in the Lord and not be tempted themselves."

"Child," the Mother Superior addressed Christine directly this time. "you are supposedly to be under the influence of the Devil. What did he promise you to make you fall into his service?"

But Christine remained silent. She understood why they assumed she was in league with the Devil, but she couldn't understand why she was to play the role of the possessed. No demon, lost soul or spirit had claimed her body of mind. The former was depending on the latter, and the latter had long-since been claimed by one she knew was no mystical force. And she knew he was close. Somehow, the eerie sensation of his presence, whether it was her imagination or not, lingered.

"She isn't a mute, I take it?" the priest asked. The Comte shook his head. "It might be that we come too late… that the Demon has already exacted his revenge on the girl."

"Speak, child." The Mother Superior said, "We must see that there is yet hope for you before agreeing to accept you among us."

But the other two nuns seemed to find the fact that Christine was supposed to be possessed frightening, if not outright terrifying. They whispered prayers to each other and crossed themselves when Christine gave them a blank look. How strange that she be the one to realize that the wheels of fortune had been set in motion and that nothing said or done here would change it.

She realized, finally, that Raoul would never be free to be with her. It had been a dream squashed by circumstances. Death was the only alternative. She saw it in the face of the two nuns, slowly, in the priest's as well, who seemed to begin to believe that Raoul would still be under the indirect influence of the aftermath of the "enchantment" and in those of the Comte as well, who was, in a way, blameless – he simply wanted his brother to be happy. But in a proper marriage to a properly rich lady.

There was no hope.

"Perhaps we are too late." the priest said, slightly uneasily. "She may have had her soul taken away by the Beast already. If the soul was sent down into the depths of Hell, justly or not, it will be much too easy for a demon to take possession of the body."

But Christine would not speak, no matter how they prodded. The convent… she wouldn't find any peace there. _He_ would follow her until the end of the world. Not even the so-called holy walls would be able to keep him away. And, feeling a wave of resignation pass through her, engulf her, she accepted that. Somehow, suddenly, she understood that even if she wanted to return to the life she had led previously, there was no way to do so. Existence without Raoul, she could survive, because she now understood that that existence had been taken out of her reach the moment they had been caught. Now, she had nothing left… save for him.

Subconsciously, she acknowledged that the Comte and his holy companions were arguing about her fate. The priest seemed to have come to the solution that she was to be burned, like the witch she was, and perhaps then the demon would be driven out of her body and her soul would find salvation. The Mother Superior was shocked, but Christine saw that she seemed to have thought of such a solution as well. As for the Comte, he looked doubtful of such practices and certainly unwilling to execute her in such a violent manner, no matter what her faults.

As if their choice mattered.

X X X

Of course _he_ had been watching the entire proceedings; from the moment the chandelier crashed to the second Christine seemed to have lost focus or the will to defend herself. But it had been the only way to give her a chance to escape her prison. And the longer and closer he watched her, the more he noticed the sudden change in her. Ever since she had understood that he had been telling her the truth, she seemed to have lost a certain spark. Ah, young love – and a forbidden one at that. For once, he was more than glad that de Chagny was an aristocrat.

And the young man was nowhere in sight, even as Christine's hands were bound, even as she was forced to watch as a stake was prepared for the burning, for the priest insisted that it had to be done instantly, to prevent the demon from creating another plan and perhaps slipping into the body of another innocent, which would render their exorcism useless. The poor fools; they had no idea that there was only one demon in their house, one who had no desire for anyone but Christine and that demon would certainly not stand for the burning of the only creature who had shown the clemency of viewing him as a human being. Angels belonged in heaven, but they shouldn't be sent there through the fire.

Mere hours later, a white-clad Christine, though her dress shared nothing with a bridal gown save the color, was led to the stake and tied to it. She didn't resist at all. Some of the servants looked sad and a black-haired girl that he knew to be Christine's friend was crying and protesting that Christine was innocent. To no avail, of course. But he would grant the girl the wish to free Christine. Slowly, unseen by anyone, he moved to where Christine was being kept. The skills he had unwillingly gained during his years of reclusive life had proved very useful that day.

_Christine… _she heard the voice in her head, knowing it wasn't her own. He was here. Eyes widening slightly, Christine looked around to see where he was, but couldn't see him. What was he planning? She prayed to God that he wouldn't slaughter everyone present, though she knew that if circumstances would force him into doing it, he wouldn't hesitate.

Just as the priest finished his speech about hoping that her soul would reach the heavens, if it was still pure, a high-pitched scream rang through the estate. Sorelli, the head chambermaid, came running out of the building, almost shrieking her head off.

"The Vicomte is dead!" she screamed, "The Vicomte has killed himself!" Sobbing, she almost collapsed as some of the servants rushed into the building, only to bring confirmation to what she was saying. A rope, a letter… and a body that was now covered in a blanket. Momentarily, Christine was forgotten and everyone rushed to the body, the Comte and the priest first among them.

The Comte de Chagny took the letter intended for him with trembling hands and carefully read it. The ink was fresh, the writing shaky, and the words sincere. Raoul had written that before hanging himself. It was a confession that he loved Christine, but that she was innocent of any crime they accused her of, that it had been his own choice to convince her to flee, and that, if he couldn't be with her in life, he would be with her in heaven.

_Forgive me, brother, _the letter said, _for I am guilty of the greatest sin in this sad, grey world – of love. _

Grief and hatred spread through the Comte´s mind… but before he could even think of finally agreeing to the burning of Christine, several women screamed. The stake was alit with flames; the hay that had been placed around it was spitting sparks. Servants rushed to fetch water, as the Comte made no motion to stop them. He simply stared into the flames, ignoring the priest, who was shouting about devils and demons and God only knew what else, and the nuns that were crossing themselves wildly. All that he understood was that his brother had chosen death over life. If it was Christine's fault, then damn her to hell, but he had no way of finding out what was the truth now. All he could do was help put out the fire and hope that God wasn't punishing him without reason.

X X X

She woke up.

Had it been minutes, hours, days? She didn't remember. Fire… she remembered it. It had blinded her and sometime later, she had fainted. But otherwise, she had no idea where she was, though she filled out the blanks within moments. She was still dressed in the white rags they were to burn her in, but there was another stunning dress and accessories lying on the seat next to her.

Her face had been washed, she realized as she looked through the window. It was night, as black as the carriage she was in, and she was probably safe. They stopped in a few hours, during which she tried to remember what had happened after she had fainted. This wasn't afterlife, certainly. Neither heaven nor hell gave presents to their occupants. The carriage slowed down, entering what seemed to be the ruins of a medieval castle. Christine only vaguely realized that a few months ago, she would have been terrified of it. Right now, she didn't really give it much thought.

The door on her left opened and she accepted the offered hand without hesitation. There stood Erik – no one else would have been dressed in black from head to toe and still regarding her with an admiration that bordered with obsession. The irony of fate was that she was glad to see him. Right now, he was the only certainty in her life and there was no guarantee that her mind could handle much more of the cruelty of the world before cracking. Though he tensed immediately when she almost hurled herself at him, her hands locking around him like manacles, he couldn't disguise the slight satisfaction that he obviously felt.

Christine said nothing, because there was nothing to be said. Words would only complicate matters. But what she wanted to express was obvious. There was no other path than the one leading into darkness. And it had never seemed as safe as it did after what she had witnessed in the light. There would be fear, sacrifices, dangers. Perhaps even deaths. Moments when one of them might question their own sanity. But after that which had almost transpired, there would certainly never be the point when they would break. After all, neither had anything but the other now. She wouldn't survive otherwise. And, though for different reasons, he probably wouldn't, either.

Bound in life, by death, through music.


End file.
